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AVERAGE CABINS 


Novels by Isabel C. Clarke 

Published by Benziger Brothers 

In same Uniform Series, each, net, $2.00 postage 15 cents. 
THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 

Discriminating book lovers will find unusual literary ^race, descriptive 
power of exquisite charm, and a plot of enthralling interest in Miss 
Clarke’s latest story. 

THE POTTER’S HOUSE 

“It abounds with her characteristically effective descriptive passages.” — 
America. 

TRESSIDER’S SISTER 

The story is well and interestingly told . — Catholic World. 

URSULA FINCH 

A moving love story that is both wholesome and delightful to read. — 
Fortnightly Review. 

EUNICE 

So charming in telling, so Catholic in spirit . — Catholic Universe. 

THE ELSTONES 

The interest never flags. — America. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER 

Good fiction is richer for its advent . — New World. 

CHILDREN OF EVE 

The narrative is powerful . — Boston Evening Record. 

THE DEEP HEART 

Altogether delightful, graceful and uplifting . — Catholic Bulletin. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION 

It is a thrilling setting handled with power . — Ecclesiastical Review. 

FINE CLAY 

Full^ of human interest, not a dull page in the volume . — Western 
Catholic. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS 

The book is interesting throughout. — Exponent. 

THE REST HOUSE 

The interest holds down to the last line . — Brooklyn Tablet. 

ONLY ANNE 

A genuine welcome addition to Catholic fiction.— ^ re Maria. 

THE SECRET CITADEL 

The craftsmanship is admirable . — Rosary Magasine. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER 

Full of charm and interest. — St. Anthony Messenger. 



AVERAGE CABINS 


A NOVEL 

BY 

ISABEL C CLARKE 
W 


We mortals cross the ocean of this world 
Each in his average cabin of a life — 

The best’s not big, the worst yields elbow-room. 

— Robert Browning. 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGBR’S MAGAZINE 

1922 



Copyright, 1922, by Benzigkr Brothers 


«i 

> 


* 



©CI.A674546 


■Hv : I 

i 


TO 

MY THREE LITTLE AMERICAN FRIENDS 


ESTHER, CHARLOTTE AND FRANgOISE 
WISEMAN-MAC MURROUGH 




AVERAGE CABINS 


CHAPTER I 

D enis LORIMER spent the winter succeeding 
the Armistice in Rome. During the final 
months of the War, after a long slow recovery from 
shell-shock, he had acted as interpreter on the 
Italian Front, where his knowledge of various 
European languages and particularly of Italian had 
proved extremely useful. 

Rome had attracted him for two reasons. First, 
because much of his childhood had been spent there, 
and he had felt a strong desire to revisit those 
scenes once so familiar. Secondly, he had received 
a cordial invitation from one Pio Ascarelli, a young 
Roman Marchese, to come to his house as often as 
he liked. Denis had been able to render some small 
but, as it proved, important service to Ascarelli dur- 
ing the time when their paths had merged on the 
Julian Front. 

As an English officer, apparently well supplied 
with money, and with the valuable if tacit testimo- 
nial which intimacy at Casa Ascarelli bestowed, 
Denis found the doors of many agreeable houses 
thrown open to him. Captious critics might have 
remarked that he avoided the society of his brother- 
officers and fellow-countrymen rather too scrupu- 
lously, but when charged with this he would smil- 
ingly assert that he had lived so long in Rome as a 
boy that he counted himself half an Italian, and felt 


8 


AVERAGE CABINS 


more at home in the society of Italians than in that 
of Englishmen. 

Denis had volunteered for service in the first days 
of the War. Up till then he had acted for some 
years as agent to old Lord Farewether, a Catholic 
peer and owner of large estates in the North of 
England. It was commonly supposed that he had 
given up his “job” in order to enlist, a mistake 
which Lord Farewether had never attempted either 
to contradict or to rectify. 

Denis was at this time a dark singularly hand- 
some man of nine and twenty. He became rapidly 
popular, and Roman gossip freely whispered that 
his footing in Palazzo Ascarelli promised to become 
permanent. Donna Camilla, the eighteen-year-old 
daughter of the house, was aware of the services 
rendered to Pio in a moment of perilous emergency, 
and she smiled gratefully upon the stranger who 
gazed at her with eyes as dark as her own. 

Donna Camilla, though only just introduced to 
society, was already renowned for her beauty, and 
more than one young man of wealth and position 
had timidly approached the old Marchesa on her 
daughter’s behalf, but so far none of these over- 
tures had met with success. 

She was a slim strip of a girl with the small deli- 
cate features, the clear pale dark skin, the well- 
shaped patrician head, the tiny hands and feet of 
her race. Her father was dead, but her mother 
still lived, and guarded her treasure with jealous 
vigilance. The new freedom that in all lands had 
released women from their age-long captivity, had 
so far not penetrated within the walls of Palazzo 
Ascarelli. And in her watchful care the old 
Marchesa was supported by her two sons, Pio and 
Domenico, who were both nearly a decade older 


AVERAGE CABINS 


9 


than their sister and since their father’s death had 
held a complete authority over her against which 
she did not dream of rebelling. She obeyed Pio — 
the head of the house and a strong-willed, auto- 
cratic, passionate man — as if he had been her 
father. She both loved and feared him. He had 
told her that she must be kind to Denis — to wel- 
come him whenever he came to the house. Camilla 
very dutifully obeyed him. The path was made 
easy for Denis, the obstacles being, as it were, auto- 
matically removed. 

There were fair and beautiful days in Rome that 
winter, and in their release from anxiety, people 
strove to recapture something of the old gay life 
with its dances and receptions despite the fierce and 
fatal onslaughts of the Spanish sickness that swept 
across the land, claiming its grim toll of victims as 
inexorably as the War had done. Pious people 
remembered the Pale Horse of the Apocalypse and 
dreaded lest the Black Horse of Famine should 
presently appear. . . . The epidemic entered Pa- 
lazzo Ascarelli in February and carried off, after a 
few days’ illness, the old Marchesa. 

Denis Lorimer attended the Requiem Mass and 
left cards of condolence at the palace. Pio had 
been passionately attached to his mother; he felt her 
loss even more keenly than did Camilla. Denis 
could hardly recognize this grief-worn man when he 
met him one morning in the Corso. He hardly 
liked to approach him, but Pio stopped him and in- 
formed him of his intention of leaving Rome, and 
of spending some months at the old Villa Ascarelli 
in the Umbrian hills. 

“Domenico and Camilla will of course accom- 
pany me,” he said. Then he added, rather to Lor- 
imer’s surprise, “I hope that perhaps later on you 


lO 


AVERAGE CABINS 


will pay us a visit there. There is not a great deal 
to do, but there are horses — you will have plenty of 
riding.’’ 

Denis thanked him. He secretly hoped that the 
invitation might come before he was compelled for 
urgent financial reasons to leave Rome. Otherwise 
the idyll which had begun so promisingly and which 
had of late begun to affect him seriously, must in- 
evitably come to an end. 

Pio bade him an abrupt farewell, and Denis, pur- 
suing his way along the Corso, felt slightly de- 
pressed at the thought that the old palace, whose 
doors had always been so hospitably opened to him, 
would now be left untenanted. Pio might forget 
his promise to invite him to his country house. A 
shadow seemed suddenly to have fallen upon Rome. 

It seemed to him that since the Marchesa’s death 
something of his intimacy with the family had 
slipped away. Immersed in his own grief, Pio had 
almost forgotten his new friend. Even to-day, 
while kindly and courteous, he had seemed like a 
stranger. He had not even suggested that Denis 
should pay a farewell visit to the palace; it had 
evidently never occurred to him that Lorimer had 
any special wish to see Camilla again. And yet 
— and yet — Denis could not help feeling convinced 
that he had at least awakened some slight interest 
in the young girl’s mind. He had never been actu- 
ally alone in her company, but the rooms at the 
palace were very large, and they had often talked 
together quite out of hearing of the old Marchesa, 
who generally sat knitting close to the open fire- 
place, where the great olive logs burned with such 
fragrant aroma. Once he had shown her a photo- 
graph of Sledwick, that ancient pile where he had 
spent three extraordinarily happy years, and when 
she murmured slowly : “That is your home in Eng- 


AVERAGE CABINS 


II 


land?” he had not contradicted it. He had only 
said evasively: “It was my home, but it’s let now, 
for a term of years. Taxation, you know, is awfully 
heavy in England since the War, and it falls heaviest 
on the landowner.” 

Her interest in the picture had been pretty to 
see. Sledwick was nobly placed with great woods 
sheltering it from the north, and beyond them the 
famous moors where some of the finest grouse-shoot- 
ing in England was to be had. Later on he had 
intended to tell Camilla that the house did not really 
belong to him, but that he had lived there on terms 
of intimate friendship with its owner. The Fare- 
wethers were not addicted to travel ; they pre- 
ferred their own country; it was only rarely that a 
more than usually pious member of the family 
would visit Rome in order to see the Holy Father. 
Denis felt pretty safe; there was little chance of 
his deception being discovered, and he had observed 
that Camilla and her brothers implicitly believed in 
all those advantages of wealth and position which 
he had tacitly represented himself as possessing. 
They had accepted him as their friend, had received 
him on terms that were almost intimate, and from 
that moment had placed complete confidence in his 
word. 

Camilla had begged to be permitted to keep the 
photograph of that ancient stone edifice, with 
the Gothic tower of a small chapel rising from the 
extreme westerly portion of it. Brought up in 
the pious traditions of her house, W interested her 
when Denis further told her that all through the 
melancholy, tragic days of religious persecution in 
England, the Light before the Blessed Sacrament in 
the chapel at Sledwick had never been extinguished. 
She had never been in England, and had always 
pictured it as a dreary sunless country wrapped in 
fog, but Denis had corrected this impression and 


12 


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had awakened within her a strong desire to go 
there. She knew her own country fairly well and 
had visited most of the important cities in it; she 
had spent several summers in Switzerland and a 
few weeks in Paris. But she felt that in all her 
travels she had never seen such a beautiful house as 
Sledwick. That haunt of ancient peace seemed to 
have cast a spell upon her, as perhaps indeed Denis 
intended that it should. He felt that his own signifi- 
cance had increased in her eyes. And although 
he was never quite happy or at ease with himself 
when he remembered the little episode, he little 
dreamed that it would affect his future so merci- 
lessly. 

'Some weeks passed, and Denis had already begun 
to regard his dwindling store of Italian lire with 
anxiety and dismay, when Pio’s letter arrived, con- 
firming his invitation and even asking him to come 
as soon as he could conveniently do so. “It is 
very dull up here,” he wrote, “and Domenico has 
had to go away on business to the North. My 
sister and I are alone. It is not, I fear, very amus- 
ing, but the country round here is very beautiful, 
and we shall be able to show you all the neighbor- 
ing hill-cities.” 

It was in March, and Easter would not fall for 
another month. No arbitrary limit was fixed for 
his stay, and Denis hoped that if he played his cards 
well he might be invited to remain at least until 
Lent was over. Fortune seemed for once to be 
smiling upon him, for Pio’s letter had only just ar- 
rived in time and had relieved Denis at a highly 
critical moment. 

Beyond these sordid considerations lay his desire 
to see Camilla again. She had been gone rather 
more than a month from Rome, and if her heart 
had any secret to td\ her, she must by now have 
learned it. 


AVERAGE CABINS 


13 


“Of course he is after her money. She will have 
a large fortune,” said the gossips of Rome. But 
although Denis certainly wanted money and wanted 
it badly, he felt that he would have loved Camilla 
just as passionately if she had been penniless. 
Sometimes hope ran very high, and then his cour- 
age would fail a little when he remembered that he 
would first have to approach Pio. Italian usage 
did not permit -a man, as in England, to approach 
the girl herself with an offer of marriage, a declara- 
tion of love. And there was always something 
within him that secretly feared Pio. He was a 
just man but a very hard one. When you looked 
at his finely-cut face, with its precise and definite 
outlines and sternly-molded lips and chin, you felt 
that it would be easier to win compassion from him 
than forgiveness. . . . Some such thoughts as these 
were in Denis’s mind that fair spring afternoon 
when the Roman train rolled into the little Um- 
brian station. 

Pio was on the platform, wrapped in a short 
but voluminous fur coat, his face slightly reddened 
from exposure to the wind. He came quickly up to 
Denis and held out his hand with a smile of greet- 
ing. They went out into the road beyond and 
found a big red automobile awaiting them. Denis’s 
suitcase and bag were speedily brought and placed 
in the back of the car. Pio was driving, unac- 
companied. Like many of his race he was a highly- 
skilled mechanic. 

The scenery that lay outspread before them was 
wild and very beautiful. Spring was less advanced 
up here than it had been in Rome, and only a faint 
impalpable mist of green showed upon the woods. 
Olive-yards that were silver-colored and shone in 
the breeze that had sprung up, clothed the slopes 
of the hills, and here and there groups of giant 
cypresses lifted their inky-black spires to the sky. 


14 


AVERAGE CABINS 


In their rapid traveling they sometimes passed 
shining glimpses of Lake Trasimeno, lying like a blue 
jewel within its incomparable setting of hills. 
Sometimes a little brown hill-city, perched peri- 
lously, as it seemed, upon a ledge of rock, frowned 
defiance at them. In the distance they could see 
the towers of grim Perugia outlined against the 
sky, a formidable stronghold. 

“That’s the Villa over there,” said Pio suddenly, 
indicating the direction with a nod of his head. 
Denis lifted his eyes a little and saw a great square 
stucco house standing magnificently in groves of 
superb ilex-trees, with a background of still leaf- 
less oaks and chestnuts beyond. A broad terrace 
stretched in front of the house, and below, the olives 
and vines flowed away from terrace to terrace into 
the plain. 

“It’s been in our family a long time, and it’s 
rather falling to pieces,” continued Pio; “but now 
the War’s over, I mean to have it done up. I am 
very fond of it, and so is Camilla.” ^ 

He dropped into silence again. And very soon, 
as it seemed to Denis, the car was climbing the 
Steep winding road that led from the plain to Villa 
Ascarelli. It only then occurred to Denis that Pio 
had wished to make some kind of apology for the 
dilapidated state of his villa to the owner of Sled- 
wick. The thought made him extremely uncom- 
fortable, and he had a strong wish to acknowledge 
the false position in which he had wilfully placed 
himself. It would not do, however, to endanger 
his chances with Camilla by any premature or pre- 
cipitate disclosure of the kind. 

Donna Camilla, a slight figure in deepest mourn- 
ing, was waiting on the terrace to receive them. 
Black was not becoming to her; she was too dark 
to wear it to advantage; nevertheless she looked 
extremely beautiful. Pio kissed her in a kind 


AVERAGE CABINS 


15 


almost fatherly fashion, and she greeted Denis with 
a charming smile of welcome. Walking between 
the brother, and sister, Denis Lorimer passed 
through the great portone into the fine hall beyond. 


CHAPTER II 

T he days passed peacefully, if a trifle monoto- 
nously, at Villa Ascarelli. An aged priest. 
Father Antonio, who lived in some remote region 
of the old house and looked almost as if he were 
a part of it, said Mass every day at half past 
seven. The chapel shared in the general air of 
dilapidation-, with its tarnished gilding, its dim 
frescoed walls, its moth-eaten hangings from which 
all color had departed. Every member of the 
household, including all the servants, and a young 
man called Signor Basi, who seemed to act as secre- 
tary and agent to Pio, invariably attended this early 
Mass. Donna Camilla, her head draped in a thick 
black veil which tantalizingly hid her face, always 
knelt by her brother’s side on one of a row of 
prie-dieu chairs set apart for the ' family. When 
Mass was over, she disappeared to her own apart- 
ments and Denis seldom saw her again till luncheon 
time, unless some expedition had been planned for 
the morning. Pio was often too busy to arrange 
anything of the sort, but when possible he would 
go out for a couple of hours accompanied by Denis 
and Camilla, to visit some city or church in the 
neighborhood. 

Denis had always suspected that Pio was com- 
pletely master in his own house, but he had not 
quite realized until now, how absolute that rule was. 
Nothing was done — even the ordinary affairs of 


i6 


AVERAGE CABINS 


housekeeping — ^without ultimate reference to him. 
Denis wondered sometimes if Donna Camilla 
ever chafed under this rule. Perhaps she was 
too young. Perhaps her will had never come 
into definite antagonism with Pio’s. She seemed 
deeply attached to her brother, and he to her. Pio 
was proud of Camilla, of her beauty, of her intelli- 
gence. He was as indulgent towards her as his 
nature permitted. But he was something of an 
autocrat, something too of a tyrant. To oppose 
him would be like resisting a stone wall. 

Only once did Denis in those first days perceive 
the slightest disagreement between them. Camilla 
had a young maid called Ilda, who accompanied 
her whenever she went out for a walk and was 
nearly always in attendance on her. Camilla was 
fond of Ilda, and Denis had often heard them laugh- 
ing and talking together. She was the only young 
thing in the place except Camilla herself; it was 
natural, he thought, that they should enjoy each 
other’s companionship. Once or twice it had passed 
through Lorimer’s mind that if he ever found cour- 
age to speak to Camilla of his love, regardless of 
national prejudice and custom, he might find in 
Ilda a useful and helpful ally. Not being accus- 
tomed to Italian servants, he thought she sometimes 
addressed her young mistress too familiarly, as if 
unaware of the class-barriers that divided them; he 
was also astonished one day when Camilla had re- 
proved her rather sharply for some act of negli- 
gence, to see her go up almost immediately and 
kiss Ilda, as if to show that she was forgiven. 

One evening at dinner Camilla came down with 
red eyes. She scarcely touched her food, and Denis 
perceived that she could only control herself with 
difficulty. When Pio addressed her, he did so in 
tones of icy politeness. Clearly there had been 
some quarrel or scene, and Denis as a third person. 


AVERAGE CABINS 17 

presumably neutral, felt the awkwardness of his own 
situation. 

Suddenly Camilla broke down altogether, hid her 
face in her hands and burst into passionate sob- 
bing. Pio for a moment looked disconcerted; then 
he said: 

“My dear Camilla, remember we are not alone. 
If you can’t control yourself, you’d better go up to 
your room!” His dark eyes flashed. 

Had the two wills, the two fiery southern natures, 
come into conflict at last? . . . 

“Oh, Pio — I can’t bear it without Ilda ! You 
must write and tell her that she may come back . . . 
it’s cruel to send her away. . . 

Pio’s face hardened. 

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” he said sternly; 
“I sent Ilda away because she didn’t obey me. 
Giulia can act as your maid; she is old and faith- 
ful.” 

Camilla continued to sob. It was almost a re- 
lief when she rose from the table and left the room. 
Pio turned to his guest. 

“She is still such a child,” he said half in apology, 
“and at times like all children she is very unreason- 
able. It had been my intention for some time past 
to send Ilda away. She was too young and frivol- 
ous, and Camilla ought to have some one older who 
can look after her better. I have been waiting 
for an opportunity, and to-day Ilda was not only 
insolent, but she disobeyed me. I sent her back 
to Rome to her mother at once.” He spoke rather 
sulkily, as if determined to defend his own action, 
which at first sight might appear hard and a little 
cruel. 

“Your sister was very fond of her. Naturally 
she feels parting with her,” Denis ventured to say. 

“Oh, she will soon forget all about her,” said Pio, 
“and I sometimes think Ilda did not have a good 


i8 


AVERAGE CABINS 


influence over her. Once or twice I detected a ten- 
dency in Camilla to . . he hesitated, “to dispute 
my word, in little things. I think Ilda encouraged 
her to do so.” 

Camilla did not appear again that evening. But 
Pio left Denis alone directly dinner was over, and 
presumably he went upstairs to reason with his sis- 
ter. When she appeared the next day she looked 
very pale and as if she had not slept, but there were 
no traces now of those tempestuous tears which had 
so wrung Denis’s heart. He had been secretly 
furious with Pio for what he considered his harsh 
high-handed action in thus summarily dismissing 
Ilda. No doubt he had good reason for doing so, 
and as a watch-dog she was, even in Denis’s opinion, 
entirely inadequate. Still, he considered that Pio 
had been unnecessarily stern and unsympathetic. 

Somehow the little incident with its accompany- 
ing glimpse into their intimate family life made 
Denis feel less like an honored stranger and much 
more like an old friend. He even ventured upon a 
few words of consolation and sympathy to Camilla 
herself when next he found himself alone with her. 
Her eyes filled with tears, and she seemed too much 
overcome to reply. Pio’s entrance put a stop to 
the little interview, and Denis purposely distracted 
his attention lest he should perceive his sister’s 
tears and inquire into the cause of them. 

“I wish you would take Camilla for a ride this 
afternoon,” Pio said to him just before luncheon; 
“it will distract her and prevent her from thinking 
too much about Ilda.” 

“I shall be delighted,” said Denis, unconsciously 
imitating something of his host’s courteous rather 
formal manner. Never before had it been sug- 
gested that he should ride with Camilla unat- 
tended by a third person. Pio was evidently bent 
on relaxing discipline for the moment, perhaps actu- 


AVERAGE CABINS 


19 

ated by some obscure desire to make amends to 
Camilla for robbing her of her companion. 

am too busy to go myself,” said Pio; “you 
can’t imagine what a number of things there are to 
see to in a place like this. When I am in Rome, 
things seem to go perfectly well here, but as long 
as I am living on the property, no one will stir a 
finger without consulting me.” 

So there were disadvantages in autocracy, after 
all, reflected Denis. Pio’s presence would no 
doubt rob all his dependents of such initiative as 
they might possess. Denis could not but perceive 
certain side-lights that were thrown upon the char- 
acter of Pio, now that he saw him at such close 
quarters, and almost unconsciously there sprang up 
in his heart an antagonism that began to color all 
his thoughts of him. 

He was riding with Camilla that afternoon, 
when he said suddenly: 

“You must miss Ilda. . . .” 

“Yes, 5 miss her. But Pio has forbidden me to 
think about her any more — he even advised me not 
to speak of her.” Her delicate face assumed rather 
a hard set look. 

“And do you always obey Pio?” said Denis, 
rather daringly. 

“I try to. You see he is so much older — so 
much wiser. And I have no mother now to advise 
me. ' 

“You are very good,” said Denis, and this time 
he threw some little warmth of admiration into his 
voice. 

“Oh, no,” said Camilla quickly, “Pm not at all 
good. You wouldn’t say that, if you knew me bet- 
ter. At first d was angry with Pio and bitter and 
rebellious — it quite shocked him. He had never 
spoken so sternly to me before. He sent Father 
Antonio to me. And then I went to confession — ” 


20 


AVERAGE CABINS 


She broke off. “Fm going to try and do as Pio 
says and not think about Ilda any more.” 

Denis was aghast at the little recital. It showed 
him how completely Camilla was ruled and con- 
trolled by her brother, the kind of submission he ex- 
torted from her. When he thought of the abso- 
lute independence and freedom from all control, 
parental and otherwise, possessed by most girls of 
eighteen in England, he felt profoundly sorry for 
her. Yet she spoke quite calmly, almost like a 
child reviewing its own past naughtiness, recogni- 
zing it while deeply regretting it. 

“But I think Pio was to blame for sending her 
away without even consulting you. It seemed to 
me an unjustifiable thing to do, and cruel into the 
bargain.” There was indignation in his tone, and 
his dark eyes flashed. He was angry with Pio for 
exercising this complete ascendancy over his sister, 
and yet he secretly envied him for possessing it. It 
showed him so clearly the real love she had for 
Pio, and her complete confidence in his judgment 
even though it made her suffer. Her words had 
given him an intimate insight into her character and 
mode of life. Intimate, yes, and poignant. . . . 

Camilla turned to him suddenly. 

“You mustn’t think I’m unhappy because I cried 
last night at dinner. I was unhappy then, yes, and 
angry — •! felt I couldn’t live without Ilda. Now I 
can see that Pio was quite right.” It seemed almost 
as if she discerned that Denis was still wholly uncon- 
vinced of the rectitude of her brother’s action. 
“You must try to forget all about it,” she added 
brightly. “Now I’m going to take you for my fa- 
vorite ride. Just through those woods and down 
to the Lake. Pio will never come that way — he 
says there’s no place to gallop. But when I’m 
riding with you, I don’t want to gallop — ^I like 
to ride slowly and talk.” She made this announce- 


AVERAGE CABINS 21 

ment quite simply, perfectly unconscious of its effect 
upon Denis. 

They emerged at last from the shadows of the 
ile»wood to a grassy space that looked down upon 
Lake Trasimeno, bright as a mirror and colored 
faintly blue under the wonderful March sky. 
They could see Cortona hanging upon its rock, with 
its many towers soaring skywards. There was a 
sense of spring in the air, and patches of wild ane- 
mones reddened the grass with their chalices. 
Camilla gazed at the view for a little in silence. 
She wished that Denis would speak. 

“Do you like it?” she said at last. 

““I wish I could tell you how much. I think this 
would be my favorite ride, too,” he answered. 

“I wish Pio liked it. We hardly ever come 
here,” said Camilla. 

A pale mist of green, impalpable as flame, hung 
over the chestnut woods. The growing wheat 
showed like spaces of emerald beneath the olive- 
trees. The vines, with their twisted knotted 
stems, as yet showed no sign of their perfumed 
blossoms, their golden buds. In the distance the 
Apennines lifted dazzling silver peaks against the 
sky. 

“We must come here oflen — whenever we’re al- 
lowed to ride alone together,” said Denis. 

“Yes — that will be perfect I” cried Camilla. 

When they returned to the villa the swift spring 
dusk was beginning to fall, wrapping the world in 
its blue mantle soon to be strewn with stars. Pio 
was waiting for them on the terrace. As they ap- 
proached him, Denis fancied that he glanced from 
one to the other with an interrogative, almost sus- 
picious look. But he only said: 

“You’ve been out a very long time, Camilla. I 
hope you’re not tired. I was beginning to think 
something had happened.” 


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Camilla slipped down from her horse, and the 
groom led it away. She linked her arm in her 
brother’s. 

“We had a beautiful ride. I showed M.r. Lor- 
imer my favorite view of the Lake. It was lovely 
to-day, and he admired it, too.” She smiled up 
into her brother’s face, and Pio’s grim features re- 
laxed a little. 

“But you must be careful not to overtire your- 
self,” he said. 

And as he looked at Denis, who had just then 
joined them, it seemed as if his eyes held something 
of reproach. 

Denis felt suddenly chilled. The rapproche- 
ment between the brother and sister was obviously 
very complete, and there was a curious tenderness 
now, in Pio’s manner to Camilla. Her laid his arm 
possessively across her shoulders, and Denis fan- 
cied that she crept closer to him as if in response. 
And yet there was nothing abject in her submission, 
nothing that warred against that fine pride of 
hers. . . . 

Denis saw that the little episode now happily 
ended would effectually destroy all hope of Ca- 
milla’s listening to any kind of clandestine love- 
making on his part. She would certainly be care- 
ful for a long time to come not to offend or to dis- 
obey Pio. And in this avoidance of anything likely 
to disturb their present amicable relations, Denis 
knew that she would not be actuated by fear or any 
such servile sentiment. She loved Pio; she recog- 
nized his authority, she had supreme confidence in 
his judgment and decisions. It was her pleasure 
as well as her duty to do his will. 

Denis, seeing all this, felt that his obscure and 
latent antagonism towards his host was likely to in- 
crease rather than to diminish. While Camilla 
was in this mood of renewed submission and contri- 


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23 


tion, it would be obviously foolhardy to approach 
her with any revelation of his own feelings towards 
her. 

“Another time when you ride with Camilla, you 
mustn’t stay out quite so late,” Pio told him that 
evening. “She isn’t very strong, and the air after 
sundown is treacherous in Italy, especially in the 
winter and spring.” 

“I’d no idea it was so late,’’ said Denis, writhing 
inwardly at the faint rebuke in the other’s tone. 
“We were looking at that superb view. I do hope 
your sister won’t be any the worse.” 

Pio looked mollified. He had not yet begun to 
suspect that Denis had fallen in love with his sister.- 
Perhaps he considered the difference in their ages 
too great. Perhaps, regarding Camilla as a child 
to be petted and scolded, bidden and forbidden, he 
overlooked the fact that a young man might pos- 
sibly see in her a beautiful charming woman whom 
he wished to marry. 

His words, however, seemed to reassure Pio, 
who said almost apologetically: 

“You see, I’m obliged to look after her very care- 
fully. She has no mother.” The shadow of his 
recent bereavement clouded his face. “It would 
have been happier for her if our parents had lived. 
A brother can never understand so well as a mother 
would have done. And it’s my nature to be stern 
and harsh — these things wound her.’^ 

“I think if I had had a little sister — a pretty 
charming little sister — I should have been too indul- 
gent with her. I’m sure I should have spoilt her,” 
said Denis, with a smile. 

“That would have been very foolish,” said Pio, 
with a kind of withering contempt. “Girls have to 
be trained. As a guardian one has duties. But 
Camilla is a good little soul — and she really gives 
me very little trouble. She soon saw that I was 


24 


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quite right about Ilda, and indeed certain things 
that I heard to-day have shown me that my action 
was more than justified. Of course one hates to 
seem harsh and tyrannical . . He paused and 
looked at Denis, whose dark face was singularly 
unresponsive. 

“You’ve never had sisters?” Pio inquired pres- 
ently. “You can know very little about women, 
then. I am always sorry for a woman when she 
marries a man who has never had sisters. And 
when he has lost his mother at an early age as well, 
I am still more sorry.” 

“Kut you are describing my own situation,” said 
Denis, with a smile; “I was an only child and my 
mother died when I was two years old.. Yet I 
think I understand women. . . .” 

“You would probably always expect too much 
or too little of them,” said Pio, “and both atti- 
tudes are fatal. Perhaps, as you say, you would be 
too- indulgent, and then when the day came for 
your indulgence to be exhausted, you would go to 
the other extreme and find no excuse for their con- 
duct — your disillusionment would be complete and 
very bitter — ^you would probably consider yourself 
cheated.” 

He did not wait for Denis to reply, but rose- 
from the table and followed his guest into the 
great drawing-room, chilly and bleak on this cold 
March evening despite the great fire of logs that 
burned on the hearth. 

Camilla was reading, but she sprang up at her 
brother’s approach and came eagerly towards him. 

Pio stooped and kissed her forehead lightly. 
Something in this action, tender, possessive, soft 
with mutual understanding and forbearance, made 
Denis turn abruptly away. 

He told himself that he loved Camilla far better 
than this harsh stern-faced man could ever do. 


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25 


And he longed to make his love known to them 
both so that he might at least hear the worst of 
what Pio had to say. . . . 


CHAPTER III 

F or some time, no opportunity was offered to 
Denis wherein he might reveal that love for 
Camilla which daily became more ardent as his 
intimacy with her increased. Pio often permitted 
her now to ride alone with him, and they were 
careful never to stay out too late or too long. 
Denis’s prudence in thus keeping silence to Ca- 
milla herself, was based on a very real fear of en- 
dangering his position and perhaps terminating his 
visit. Pio never referred to his leaving them; 
he seemed to take it for granted that he would 
remain with them as long as he chose. But Denis 
was aware that one false move would abruptly end 
in a departure no less summary than Ilda’s had 
been. 

He had been at the Villa nearly a month, and 
Easter was approaching when he found the desired 
opportunity of speaking to Pio. It was one even- 
ing, unusually warm for the time of year, when he 
was sitting out on the terrace with him after 
dinner. Both men were smoking. Camilla was 
in the big salotto^ and through the open windows 
they could hear the sound of very soft music. She 
had a passion for music, and played well. 

“I shall have to think about a marriage for her 
next year,” said Pio suddenly. “She will be getting 
on for twenty then. It is a great responsibility.” 

Denis moved his chair a little. Then he said 
in a curiously strained tone: 


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“I suppose you would never consider me a 
worthy match for your sister? Fm not a rich man 
but ... I love her.” 

In the moonlight Pio’s face looked more than 
usually grave and stern. He waited a little before 
replying. There was a sudden crash of chords 
from within. Denis feared that Camilla would 
come out and join them, and interrupt their conver- 
sation at this critical moment. Then the music 
began again. ... It was tender,^ pleading, and 
there was something of sadness in it. 

Perhaps Pio was not greatly astonished at 
Denis’s revelation. The possibility of such a se- 
quel had not been remote from his mind when he 
had invited him to stay at the Villa and received him 
on such friendly and intimate terms. He had had 
his own reasons for so doing. The photograph of 
Sledwick, duly shown to him by Camilla, had made a 
highly favorable impression upon him. And lately 
he had begun to suspect that Camilla herself was 
not wholly indifferent to the young Englishman. 

He had given great reflection to the matter, had 
settled that the young couple should spend nine 
months of the year at Sledwick and the remaining 
three in Rome. 'In this way he would not be com- 
pletely separated from his sister. Denis was a 
Catholic, and thus there was not the religious bar- 
rier that usually exists between English and Italian. 
And personally he had always liked Denis. . . . 

^ It would, however, have been unlike Pio to make 
his first comment a very encouraging one. He only 
said, after a pause in which Denis’s heart throbbed 
with almost sickening force: 

‘‘I must think it over. I’m not in favor of inter- 
racial marriages myself. The War has shown us 
how dangerous they may prove to be. And in any * 
case nothing could be settled until the period of 
mourning is over.” 


AVERAGE CABINS 


27 


Denis was secretly astonished to find that a 
young man like Pio, who was absolute master of 
his own actions, should thus voluntarily submit to 
the ancient tyranny of a “period of mourning.” 
Perhaps it did not seem such an anachronism up 
here in this ancient dilapidated abode, half villa, 
half castle, situated on the slopes of the Umbrian 
hills amid surroundings that could scarcely have 
altered since the fourteenth century, as it would have 
done in Rome or in London. From a person of 
an older generation such a sentiment would prob- 
ably have elicited no surprise in a country that clings 
to ancient usage and tradition. But Pio had 
fought gallantly through three years of bitter war- 
fare, and he should have at least permitted him- 
self to grasp the various kinds of freedom and eman- 
cipation that War had brought so harshly into the 
world. 

Pio, however, saw not the slightest reason for 
wishing to depart from the time-honored usage 
of his country. After his father’s death he could 
remember that his mother had led a secluded life 
up here for nearly two years, clad in the deepest 
mourning. 

“So you see there’s plenty of time. And Ca- 
milla is very young. She won’t be nineteen till 
Christmas.” 

“And I am twenty-nine,” said Denis. He seemed 
to be looking at Camilla across those last ten years 
of his life. The reflection was not a very pleasant 
one. If Pio knew . . . but Pio would never know. 
No one had ever known except old Lord Fare- 
wether, most magnanimous of men. At least 
that ghost could never arise to startle them. Denis 
felt safe enough, yet when he looked at Pio 
now, he feared. Feared, too, the year that must 
necessarily elapse before anything could be “settled.” 

Camilla’s music was torturing him. ... It 


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seemed to him to be pleading for them both to an 
obstinate merciless Pio. ... 

“I thought you were older,” said Pio frankly. 
“But men of our generation look older than they 
are. It isn’t to be wondered at. We have suffered 
more than any other generation since the time of 
the Napoleonic wars.” 

Denis felt far from satisfied at the progress of 
the interview. Had Pio really said his last word 
on the important subject of his sister’s marriage? 
Did he intend that Denis should keep silence 
about the matter for a whole year, waiting with 
what patience he might for Ascarelli’s ultimate de- 
cision? Denis felt that his chance of success 
would perish long before that remote epoch was 
reached. 

Yet, without vanity, he believed that Camilla 
was beginning to care for him. But if he were to 
go away for a year, would she not forget him? 
Perhaps it was unreasonable for him, on the other 
hand, to wish that the wedding could take place soon 
after Easter in the little thirteenth century church 
whose brick campanile stood up above the huddled 
cluster of houses ^ that formed the village lying 
just below them in the plain, and whose lights 
showed now so clearly and steadily. . . . But to 
wait a whole year! Denis was silent, not daring 
to argue with Pio, whose arbitrary manner made 
him feel as if discussion on his pronouncements 
was actually prohibited. 

Denis feared to offend him. That would in- 
deed be to destroy his slender chances of winning 
Camilla. He was a cold and, in many ways, a hard 
man, this Ascarelli, but beneath that grave stern 
exterior lay, as Denis was aware, the tempestuous, 
fiery, passionate nature of the Italian. 

“Of course I can trust you not to mention the 
matter to my sister,” said Pio; “when the time 


AVERAGE CABINS 


29 


comes I shall, of course, inform her myself. The 
ultimate decision will rest with her. I should 
never force her into a marriage against her will.” 

“I should hope not, indeed!” Denis was sur- 
prised into saying. 

Pio looked at him coldly. 

“If I thought a particular marriage desirable for 
her, I should endeavor to advise her, to persuade 
her that it would be for her happiness,” he said. 
“Camilla is growing very reasonable. I am sure I 
should not have any difficulty. . . .” 

So Denis was entirely in Pio’s hands. 

“In the meantime, I must beg you not to say a 
word to Camilla. Pm sure you will see that your 
remaining with us depends upon your prudence in 
this matter. I can^ have nothing hurried or pre- 
mature under the circumstances. My mother has 
only been dead a few months.” 

“I shall be very careful,” said Denis, moodily. 
He was not sure that he could accept such hard 
conditions. There flashed through his mind a be- 
lief that he could even persuade Camilla to consent 
to a secret marriage. . . . 

“I have already trespassed too long upon your 
hospitality,” he told Pio; “and I think I shall have 
to return to England soon. I only wish it had 
been possible for you to give your consent to our 
engagement before I go.” 

“My dear Lorimer, that’s quite out of the ques- 
tion, as I’ve tried to show you,” said Pio half im- 
patiently. He always considered people unreason- 
able when they failed to fall in at once with his own 
views. “And I don’t want you to hurry away. 
Stay at least over Easter. I’ve invited a com- 
patriot of yours to come here then for a week.” 
He paused and then said in a softer, more kindly 
tone, “We shall miss you — Camilla and I. We 
have enjoyed having you.” 


30 


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“Thank you,” murmured Denis. He was not 
paying a great deal of attention to what Pio was 
saying or he would certainly have asked the name 
of this Englishman who was soon to visit the Villa 
Ascarelli. But nothing seemed to matter at the 
moment except that he would have to go away with 
all his love for Camilla still unspoken, as far as 
'the girl herself was concerned. It seemed to him 
an unfair and almost cruel arrangement, and he 
wished he had had the courage to tell Pio so. 

Camilla ceased playing and came out on to the 
terrace. In her deep mourning she looked like a 
shadow among the shadows. She stole up to Pio 
and stooping kissed the top of his head. 

“What are you looking so solemn about?” she 
said, smiling. 

Pio was silent: then he said, “I have been ask- 
ing Mr. Lorimer to stay on here until after Easter. 
He tells me that he’ll have to be going to England 
soon.” 

“Oh, shall you really?” said Camilla. Her face 
became grave as she looked at Denis, and he tried 
to believe that he could detect disappointment in 
her tone. “But of course you must stay till after 
Easter.” 

Pio looked at her approvingly. There was just 
as much kindness as was necessary in her voice and 
manner, and no more. Nothing to show that her 
interest in Denis was of a different nature from that 
which she would have readily bestowed upon any of 
her brother’s guests. Her manner was perfect, he 
thought. All of a sudden he felt glad that a year 
must pass before any plans need be made for her 
to leave the old house and home. And during that 
year he could perhaps learn something more of 
Denis, who was really a comparative stranger to 
them. Money and property he certainly had, and 
these things possessed a good deal of attraction for 


AVERAGE CABINS 


31 


Pio, whose finances had been hard hit during the 
long years of War.. Moreover, he liked Denis’s 
frank charming manner and equable disposition. 
He had behaved, too, with prudence and discre- 
tion in regard to the proposed marriage. Many 
young Englishmen would have taken the matter into 
their own hands and approached Camilla without 
any reference to himself, according to the custom 
(Pio thought it a barbarous one) of their own coun- 
try. Yes, there was a great deal to be said in 
favor of the match. . . . He watched them now, as 
Denis rose and strolled across the terrace by Ca- 
milla’s side. Their two figures were sharply silhou- 
etted in inky blackness.’ He wondered what they 
were saying to each other. But the thought did not 
trouble him; he had perfect confidence that Denis 
would continue to show reserve and prudence, and 
Camilla that frank friendliness towards him which 
was the proper attitude, for a young girl to display 
towards her brother’s guest. Pio was satisfied that 
no one could make a fresh move in the game without 
his guidance and consent. He had the situation 
well in hand. But his mind dwelt approvingly upon 
the proposed marriage, always supposing that the 
settlements Denis could make should prove per- 
fectly satisfactory. Camilla’s dowry was not a very 
large one, but if she made a marriage of which he 
approved, he was prepared to augment it within 
reason. 

“It might take place next spring, directly after 
Easter,” he mused. “When he’s gone to England 
I might give Camilla a hint, but not before. It’s 
always a mistake to discuss these things prematurely. 
I’m sure Camilla likes him — I should have no trouble 
with her.” 

Denis said little as he stood close to the balus- 
trade of the terrace, looking out into the starry Um- 
brian night. Below them were the lights, some 


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clustered, some scattered, of the little village. The 
river was visible, like a pale riband, tortuous, twist- 
ing like a luminous snake. The monotonous croak- 
ing of the frogs made a weird accompaniment of 
sound, breaking the silence of that warm spring 
night, almost like some strange Futurist music. 
Suddenly a nightingale began to sing its wonderful 
song of liquid bubbling notes in a cypress-tree close 
to them. Denis and Camilla listened to it in silence. 
He longed to speak to her then, to tell her of his 
own hopes, but the thought of Pio deterred him. 
He would only forfeit his last few weeks here, 
and that was too heavy a price to pay . . . 

He felt at that moment that he hated Pio for 
all the hard conditions he had so arbitrarily laid 
down. 

He said slowly: 

“I have stayed here a very long time, Donna 
Camilla. I hope you don’t think it has been too 
long?” 

Camilla smiled. “Oh, no,” she said; “we are 
only too delighted that you cared to stay so many 
weeks. For it must be dull for you up here with 
nothing whatever to amuse you. And lately Pio has 
been so busy — I’m afraid you’ve hardly seen anything 
of him except just at meals and in the evening. It’s 
very good of you to have stayed here so long.” 

“But I’ve loved it,” he said, “every day of it 
' — every hour of it! It’s simply done me pounds 
of good. I haven’t felt so fit for years. It’s 
cured me of that hideous shell-shock. . . . 

“I’m so glad,” she said. “I shall tell Pio that 
he must invite you to come back. Perhaps in the 
autumn, when England begins to get wet and cold. 
Would you come — if Pio asked you?” She looked 
up into his face. 

**Yes — -I should come,” he answered gravely. 

The nightingale continued its song in the old 


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33 


cypress-tree. Below in the plain the frd gs kept up 
their incessant chorus. Denis and Camilla stood 
side by side in silence. He did not trust himself 
to speak; he wanted so ardently to tell her the 
whole truth. 

Pio’s voice sounded suddenly across the terrace. 

“Camilla, you must come in. The night is get- 
ting chilly. And besides it’s very late.” 

Camilla moved swiftly towards her brother, and 
Denis followed. Pio was standing close to the 
window. She went up to him and he kissed her 
forehead in his grave formal way. 

“Good night, Camilla,” he said. 

“Good night, Pio. Good night, Mr. Lorimer.” 
She held out her hand to Denis, and then vanished 
through the open window. Pio turned to his guest. 

“We’d better go in, too. Pd no idea it was so 
late. Have another cigar, won’t you?” 

They entered the house. . . . 


CHAPTER IV 

E aster had come and gone, and from day to 
day Denis put off his departure from the Villa 
Ascarelli. Whenever he referred to it, Pio would 
always say something that showed him he was still 
welcome to remain if he chose. There was no effort 
to speed the parting guest, and if Pio’s invitations 
to him to remain a few days longer were not exactly 
cordial, they at least seemed perfectly sincere. 

Denis had almost forgotten the fact that another 
guest was expected, when one day Pio said to his 
sister at luncheon time : 

“You and Mr. Lorimer can ride this afternoon 
if you care to. I must go in to Perugia to meet 


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my friend who is staying there and wishes to come 
here for a few days.” 

“Oh, I thought he was to have come last week, 
for Easter,” said Denis. 

“It was the original arrangement, but he pre- 
ferred to stay in Florence for Holy Week and 
Easter — he is very devout,” said Pio. 

No more was said on the subject. Secretly Denis 
disliked the prospect of the arrival of a fourth per- 
son. . He would always be there, and perhaps they 
would be expected, as the only guests and as fellow 
Englishmen, to walk and ride together. He won- 
dered, too, if he were young or old, and whether 
he would fall in love with Camilla. For Denis 
had reached the stage when he believed every man 
who saw her must inevitably fall in love with her. 
He began to feel jealous of this man he had never 
seen. 

“Of course, we must go for your favorite ride 
to-day,” he told Camilla as they set forth. 

“But why?” she asked with a smile. 

“Because I am afraid we shan’t have many more 
rides alone together. This friend of your brother’s 
is coming, and soon I shall have to leave for Eng- 
land.” 

“Oh, Pio’s friend won’t interfere with our going 
out together,” said Camilla; “he’s quite an old man. 
About sixty and rather ill. He used to be a friend 
of^my father’s when they were both young men.” 

“Does he often stay with you?” inquired Denis, 
somewhat relieved at her description of this man 
whom he had almost begun to hate as a possible 
rival. 

“No. I think he used to stay with us in Rome 
when I was a little girl. But I’ve quite forgotten 
him.” 

“What is his name?” asked Denis. 

Camilla laughed. “Ferring . . . Ferrington . . . 


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35 


I’ve forgotten it again ! And I promised Pio that 
I would learn it and not make any stupid mistakes 
when I saw him. Your English names are so diffi- 
cult.” 

Ferrington? Ferringham? For a moment 
Denis gazed at her aghast. Then he recovered him- 
self, drawing a long breath of relief. Of course 
this stranger would not prove to be Angus Fer- 
ringham, old Lord Farewether’s nephew. Why 
should he suspect anything of the sort? And then, 
he had never met Angus — knew him only by name. 
And Angus knew . . . nothing . . . 

He thought he had never seen the Umbrian land- 
scape look so divinely fair as it did upon that after- 
noon of late April. It was a day of brilliant sun- 
shine, and the sky had almost that deep violet look 
it has at midsummer. Some of the fields were 
already aflame with poppies. The vines trailed 
like great emerald garlands from tree to tree, and 
beneath the olives the young wheat made a green 
carpet. There were blue and purple shadows on 
the mountains, and below them Lake Trasimeno 
shone like a turquoise. 

To-day he felt in a reckless mood. Generally it 
was at his suggestion that they turned homewards, 
but now he would not even look at his watch to see 
how time was going. He knew it was getting late, 
because the sun had already sunk behind the moun- 
tains, and the great hill upon which Perugia stands 
with her many towers, her great fortress, was out- 
lined against a sky of crimson and gold. Very soon 
the short twilight would come to an end and dark- 
ness would fall upon the world. A scented dark- 
ness full of lovely color as the moon rose to illumi- 
nate it. The night of Italy with its fresh fragrant 
dew, its wandering bats, its stars, its wonderful 
nightingales, and perhaps an early firefly or two, 
dancing with lighted lamps among the vines. . . 


3 ^ 


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“Oh, but weVe come ever so far,” said Camilla 
suddenly; “it must be getting very late. Why 
didn’t you turn back before?” 

There was reproach in her tone. 

“I didn’t think about it. It’s so ripping out 
to-day,” he answered. “The evenings are so warm 
now. I’m sure Pio won’t mind.” 

“He won’t like it. We must make haste.” She 
gave the horse a light flick with her whip. ^ They 
cantered over the level ground, Camilla going on 
a little ahead. It was evident that she feared Pio’s 
anger. 

The valley was in shadow now. They could hear 
the bells ringing the Ave Maria from the church 
tower below. Camilla looked over her shoulder. 
“It will take us at least half an hour to get home,” 
she said almost fretfully, “and Pio expected to be 
back from Perugia not later than half past five.” 

“Perhaps he has been detained there,” said Denis. 

They rode more slowly up the long winding hill 
that stretched in front of them. Denis on looking 
back could never quite understand why he so sud- 
denly flung prudence to the winds and spoke to 
Camilla. It did not seem a very propitious mo- 
ment, for she was already perturbed at the thought 
of her brother’s anger, and perhaps a little inclined 
to blame Denis for their tardy return. Neverthe- 
less, he drew up his horse when they were still 
about a mile from the Villa and said very quietly: 

“I am going away in a few days and before I go 
I want you to know that I love you — that 1 wish 
you to be my wife. I’ve asked your brother’s con- 
sent — ” 

Camilla stopped her horse and gazed at him in 
surprise. If he had ever imagined that she had 
guessed anything of the intensity of his feeling 
for her he now knew that he was mistaken. Her 
face was turned towards him in the twilight — that 


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37 

dreamy delicate face with its beautiful brown eyes, 
its finely drawn features. 

“You — ^you want to marry me?” she said, in a 
tone of astonishment. “Why, Ilda said you did, 
and I wouldn’t believe her! You have always 
seemed to me so much older — more Pio’s age — 
you were his friend. . . 

“Yes, I am ten years older than you, Camilla. 
But that doesn’t make me quite an old man,” he 
told her smiling. 

“What did Pio say to you?” Camilla seemed so 
intensely interested in their conversation, that she 
had evidently forgotten all about the lateness of 
the hour and the growing darkness that was folding 
its swift dusky wings about them. 

“He said that he did not altogether approve of 
inter-racial marriages, and that in any case nothing 
could be settled for a year — till the period of mourn- 
ing was over.” 

“But . . . did he give his consent?” asked Ca- 
milla. 

“Not exactly. He told me I must wait and not 
mention the matter to you. So you mustn’t tell 
him ... I shall have,” and he smiled, “to throw 
myself upon your mercy! But I simply couldn’t 
go away without telling you. ...” 

Camilla was silent. She was glad in a sense that 
he had disobeyed Pio. It seemed almost right that 
she should know of this love she had so uncon- 
sciously won. She suddenly thought that if she had 
not known of it, it would have been very difficult 
for her to bear Denis’s departure, his long absence 
in England. She wondered why Pio had forbidden 
him to speak of it to her. No doubt he had good 
reasons but his action seemed — as so many of his 
actions did at first sight — a little harsh and auto- 
cratic, lacking, too, in any thought for the feelings 
of others. 


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Camilla sighed. To eighteen, a year is a very 
long time. And during that year Denis would be 
absent for many months, leaving her alone with 
!Pio at the old Villa. She realized how very much 
she would miss his sympathetic companionship. 

“Are you ready to wait?” Denis’s voice broke 
in upon her thoughts just as they were beginning 
to grow mutinous and rebellious at Pio’s harsh man- 
date. “Do you love me, Camilla?” He stretched 
out his hand and laid it upon hers. Camilla paused 
before replying, then she said: 

“Yes, I love you, Denis.” 

“And you’ll be my wife?” he said. His voice 
was hoarse now with emotion. A sensation almost 
of giddiness came over him. 

“Yes,” said Camilla, “if Pio approves.” 

“If Pio approves !” repeated Denis. 

“Yes. I couldn’t marry without his consent. 
But you’re his friend — and he so seldom makes 
friends. He likes you — he is certain to approve.” 
She spoke with a charming confidence which found 
no echo in Denis’s soul. “And then he is very fond 
of me — he wouldn’t be unkind — he’s always anxious 
to give me what I want . . .” 

^ “Have you forgotten Ilda?” said Denis, almost 
violently. “He was perfectly indifferent to all your 
tears and entreaties then!” 

“Oh, but you mustn’t judge him so harshly . . . 
Indeed he was quite right to send her away — he 
found out that she was deceitful — that she was be- 
having in a very wrong manner. Pio is never for- 
giving when people deceive him.” 

“And if he thought I had deceived him do you 
think he would forgive me?” said Denis bitterly. 

“But such a thing as that’s impossible,” returned 
Camilla quite gravely. 

She did not dream that her words had struck his 
very heart with a sense of chill, of forebodine:. 


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3^ 


“Oh, Camilla, I should like to take you across 
those hills and marry you to-morrow !” he exclaimed. 

Camilla smiled. 

“That sounds like a fairy tale. What a boy you 
are sometimes, Denis ! When you talk like that you 
seem so much younger than Pio.” 

“Do I? I’m a year younger, I believe. Per- 
haps if he were in love and some one told him that 
he must wait twelve whole months he would speak 
as I do!” 

She shook her head. “I could never imagine 
Pio in love. When he marries he will arrange 
everything his own way. No one can dictate to 
Pio. He has always been like that.” 

“What right has he to rob us of a whole year 
of happiness?” said Denis, and now there was anger 
as well as passion in his tone. “If you loved me 
— really loved me, Camilla — you wouldn’t submit 
to him for a second!” 

Camilla looked at him with a half-frightened ex- 
pression in her eyes. She realized that Denis loved 
her and that he was suffering at the prospect of that 
long separation. 

“We must be going home,” she said faintly. 

She was almost afraid of him in this new mood, 
but mingled with her fear there was a little thrill 
of joy that stirred her very heart and made her 
secretly agree with every word he said. 

“1^0 — not yet,” he said quietly, and he slipped 
down from his horse and tethered it to an olive- 
tree, where it began contentedly to crop the young 
corn. 

Then he went up to Camilla and laid his hand on 
hers. 

“Won’t you get down, too — just for a few min- 
utes ? I’m sure you can make it all right with Pio, 
and he’ll have this friend of his there to distract 
his attention.” 


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“No— BO — it’s too late,” protested Camilla. 

But she submitted when he put up his arms and 
lifted her down. They sat u^n a ledge of rock, 
just above the road, half-hidden by the olive-trees. 
In the distance they could see the lights of Villa 
Ascarelli, shining upon the hillside. The cool 
purple shadows of the spring night deepened about 
them. 

At intervals the dark hills around them were 
pricked with lights, some solitary, some clustering 
in groups that seemed to form fantastic shapes. A 
bat flew past them with its whirring flight. A 
few faint stars showed overhead. There was a 
faint chill of falling dew, a fragrance in the air 
of grass and flowers. ... 

Denis put out his arm and drew Camilla close 
to him with rough strength. He held her slim 
gloveless hand in his. They did not speak much. 
Once she lifted her face to his and he bent down 
and kissed her. She felt like one in a strange 
delicious dream. It was cruel of Pio to wish to 
separate them for a whole year. Denis might go 
away and forget her. She would need him so much 
when Pio was a little harsh with her, and when he 
scolded her as he had done the other day about 
Ilda. 

Denis murmured words of love. They fell 
sweetly upon her ears. She was glad that he had 
had the courage to disobey Pio and tell her of his 
love. It was so wonderful that she felt her whole 
life changing and becoming curiously happier under 
his hand, his touch. 

She was the first to spring up and say in a tone 
of alarm: 

“I hear some one coming. Oh, we must go, 
Denis! Supposing it should be Pio?” 

He felt that she was trembling. . . . 

“I only wish it were Pio,” he said between clenched 


AVERAGE CABINS 


41 


teeth, and his voice held an ugly little sound that in 
her terror escaped her. “I should like him to know. 
We might persuade him then to give his consent 
at once?’ 

The road wound a little below them and upon 
its blanched surface they could dimly discern the 
blurred outlines of a man on horseback. He must 
have heard the murmur of their voices — Camilla’s 
indeed had been a little shrill with alarm — for he 
stopped and called out : 

“Are you there, Camilla? What are you doing 
up there? Is Mr. Lorimer with you? Has any- 
thing happened?” 

It was Pio’s voice, harsh with anger and anxiety. 
Camilla’s hand clung to Denis’s for a desperate 
second. Then without a word she ran down the 
path through the groups of olive-trees, leaving Denis 
to follow with the horses. He heard her cry out 
as she neared the road: “I’m here, Pio. Yes, 
Mr. Lorimer is with me — nothing has happened 
— we were tired — ^we were resting . . .” 

“Come down at once I” commanded Pio’s voice. 

Denis smiled grimly to himself as he untethered 
the horses and led them down into the road. What 
was Camilla saying to her irate brother? He could 
hear their voices talking in rapid voluble Italian, 
Pio’s angry with a furious passionate note in it. 
Camilla’s shrill and pleading, breaking at times into 
what sounded almost like a sob of fear. Just like 
a child sobbing at the prospect of approaching pun- 
ishment, Denis thought to himself. The punish- 
ment, whatever it was, would fall upon them both. 

He cursed himself for a fool as he came nearer 
to them and perceived that Pio was almost beside 
himself with rage ; he seemed to have lost all con- 
trol over himself. He had dismounted and was 
standing in the road, waving his riding whip menac- 
ingly. 


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Camilla was now sobbing hysterically, her face 
hidden in her hands, her whole slight body shaking 
convulsively. 

Denis drew nearer. He felt awkward, embar- 
rassed, and yet slightly contemptuous. The cause 
of the tempest seemed too insignificant to have pro- 
voked anything so violent. In England, as he was 
aware, his action would scarcely have elicited com- 
ment. 

“What have you been saying to my sister?’’ de- 
manded Pio fiercely, as Denis drew near. 

“I’ve only told her just what I told you. That 
I love her — that I wish to marry her. I couldn’t 
go away as you wished me to and leave her in 
ignorance of my feelings towards her. Our Eng- 
lish ways are different and I think they’re better 
than yours! And we don’t want to wait a year. 
We want to be married as soon as possible.” 

There was defiance in his tone, as he blurted 
out the truth. He had never feared Pio so little. 
He longed to take Camilla in his arms and console 
and comfort her, but the angry figure of her brother 
stood between them, whip in hand. 

“You shall never marry my sister,” said Pio. 
“I’d rather see her dead. Get on your horse at 
once, Camilla. Mr. Lorimer can follow. I shall 
have something more to say to him later on.” 

He bestowed a fierce look upon Denis. — a look 
that seemed to hold both anger and hatred. But 
his voice, as he spoke, had suddenly become as cold 
as ice, and to Denis it seemed to convey a subtle 
menace. 

Why should Pio’s friendship suddenly turn to 
hatred? Why should he tell him that he would 
rather see Camilla dead than married to him? 
Camilla’s own words came back to him with a new 
and terrible significance : 


AVERAGE CABINS 43 

**Pio is never forgiving when people deceive 
him. . . 

Camilla sobbingly obeyed. Pio almost lifted her 
on to her horse, for she seemed incapable of mount- 
ing. The scene — the fear and terror that possessed 
her, coming so swiftly upon the strange excitement 
that Denis’s words and kisses had evoked within 
her — had physically exhausted her. She looked like 
a spent child, Denis thought. Pio seemed to han- 
dle her rather roughly as he seized her and lifted 
her in his arms. She gave a little moan of re- 
monstrance but made no attempt to resist him. 

The brother and sister rode on ahead. Some- 
times Denis, who was following at a little distance, 
could hear Pio’s voice raised in angry reproof. 
Only sobs answered him. Camilla was evidently 
making no effort to exculpate herself and Denis. 
She was as usual being bullied into submission. 

But Denis could not feel that the mere fact of 
his remaining out a little later than usual with 
Camilla could alone have provoked this storm of 
anger. It could hardly have caused Pio to change 
all at once from an attitude of friendship to one of 
fierce hatred. Something must have happened dur- 
ing their absence to excite his suspicions as to the 
character and past of his English guest. Denis’s 
heart sank. This elderly Englishman who had 
been expected to arrive that day — had he anything 
to do with this terrible change of front? Had he 
been in a position to reveal anything? Denis drove 
the thought resolutely from him. Such coinci- 
dences were impossible. . . . And yet it was diffi- 
cult to reconcile Pio’s words with anything but an 
exact and definite knowledge of something which 
had taught him that this man whom he had almost 
accepted as his sister’s future husband was in no 
way worthy of her, and had invented an imaginary 


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S jsition for himself to which he could lay no claim. 

enis was certain that Pio had conceived a sudden 
and violent hostility towards himself, and he felt 
that there must be a good reason for the change. 
Pio was not a capricious man; all his actions were 
reasonable and considered, although he often erred 
on the side of harshness and severity. He even 
showed those qualities to Camilla, whom he loved 
so dearly. 

Denis had a sudden impulse to turn his horse’s 
head in the direction of Perugia and ride away, 
shaking the dust of Villa Ascarelli from his feet. 
The action of a coward? Yes, but conscience had 
made a coward of him, in accordance with time- 
honored usage. He envied men who had the fine 
free liberty of a clean record, which enabled them 
to look the world boldly in the face, conscious of 
their own honor, their own rectitude. And then 
the thought came to him that even if he now turned 
and fled from what promised to be the most hor- 
rible and disagreeable and humiliating scene of his 
whole life, not even excepting that parting one with 
old Lord Farewether, he would be wronging 
Camilla. He must not sacrifice her. She would 
have much to bear from Pio. He would make her 
suffer. Denis, by going away, could only add to 
that suffering. For he believed very firmly in 
Camilla’s love; he was certain that once aroused — 
and had he not aroused it? — it would prove to be 
of a faithful steadfast quality. It was true that 
she had soon forgotten her little friend and maid 
Ilda, had quickly put all thought of her from her 
because Pio had bidden her to do so, had even 
come to recognize that his action was both wise 
and necessary. But surely the two cases were not 
in the least analogous. Camilla loved him. Not 
an hour ago she had promised to marry him. But 
Denis did not reckon upon the easy disillusionment 


AVERAGE CABINS 


45 

of the young when they are compelled suddenly to 
behold their idol’s feet of clay. 

The brother and sister had vanished from sight 
long before Denis rang the bell that hung by the 
great gate of Villa Ascarelli, and rode up to the 
house. There was no sign of them, but Pio’s big 
red automobile was waiting near the front door, 
with the chauffeur standing beside it. The man 
stared at Denis as he passed, but did not seem to 
recognize him, for he offered no greeting. A 
groom stepped forward to take the horse. 

Denis rang the bell, and the sound seemed to echo 
rather eerily through the old house. 

He tried to brace his nerves for the inevitable 
scene with Pio, but physically he had not yet per- 
fectly recovered from the effects of shell-shock, and 
it seemed to him that something of his old bright 
indomitable courage had forsaken him. He felt 
rather like a schoolboy about to receive a thoroughly 
merited thrashing, and the ignominy produced by 
.this mingled sense of shame and fear seemed to 
humble him to the dust. 

A light flashed out above his head, the door was 
flung open, and Denis entered the hall. 


CHAPTER V 

T he electric light was carefully shaded in 
ancient iron lanterns, and the shadows were 
very dark in the hall, as Denis entered it. A huge log 
fire burned at one end, and before it Pio was stand- 
ing, with brow as black as thunder. Near him 
stood an elderly, gray-haired, gray-bearded man 
whose face seemed somehow familiar to Denis, 
although he did not think he had ever seen him 
before. 


AVERAGE CABINS 


46 

There was no sign of Camilla. She was prob- 
ably weeping up in her room, dismissed thither by 
her irate, implacable brother. 

“Will you come into my study, Mr. Lorimer?” 
said Pio in an icy tone. 

Resenting the peremptory nature of the request, 
which sounded far more like a command, Denis 
had little choice but to comply. The elderly man 
followed them in silence. No introduction had 
been made and Denis felt that the omission had 
been intentional. 

Pio’s study led out of the hall. All the other 
living rooms were upstairs, and this one was seldom 
used except as a kind of office where he transacted 
business with Signor Basi. There was a large table 
covered with papers and documents of all kinds. 
A great carved bookcase filled with books stood 
against the wall. A few high antique leather-cov- 
ered chairs with heavily-carved backs and some 
smaller tables, comprised the rest of the furniture. 
There was no fire, and the room even on this warm 
April night struck chill. 

Pio shut the door. On one of the smaller tables 
Denis perceived an oblong-shaped photograph. 
With a fresh sinking of the heart, he recognized it 
to be the one of Sledwick which he had given to 
Camilla in the first few days of their acquaintance. 
Simultaneously it flashed across his mind that this 
third person, this gray stranger, possessed a curious 
and striking resemblance to his late patron. Lord 
Farewether. . . . 

What a fool he had been — what a reckless, in- 
cautious fool — to leave that piece of damnatory 
evidence in Camilla’s hands 1 . . . 

He felt the blood ebb away from his face. 

Pio seized the photograph and with a violent 
gesture waved it close to Denis’s eyes. 


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47 


“Did you tell my sister that this was a photo- 
graph of your own house in Yorkshire?” he de- 
manded fiercely. 

Denis thought he had never seen any human be- 
ing look so angry before. 

“I daresay I gave her that impression,” he re- 
plied guardedly. 

“It was a lie!” said Pio violently; “you’ve been 
living here with us as our guest — our friend — 
under false pretenses 1 This gentleman is in a posi- 
tion to disprove your statements both with regard 
to this photograph and certain other things con- 
nected with yourself. Mr. Ferringham — you rec- 
ognize this picture, do you not?” 

Denis stared aghast as Mr. Ferringham stepped 
forward and took the photograph from Pio’s hand. 
Ferringham . . . yes, that was the name of Lord 
Farewether’s nephew, son of his only sister. The 
impossible had happened. 

Fixing a monocle very deliberately in his right 
eye, Ferringham said in a drawling, supercilious 
tone which held something of both insolence and 
arrogance : 

“Yes — it’s a photograph of Sledwick — our family 
place in Yorkshire. It belongs to my cousin now, 
but when Mr. Lorimer knew it, my uncle. Lord 
Farewether, was still alive. He died a year or 
two ago and his only son succeeded him in the title 
and property.” He turned to Denis, and now his 
manner definitely possessed something of that 
hauteur with which a man, conscious of his own 
social importance, will sometimes address a person 
of inferior rank. “You were my uncle’s agent, were 
you not? And you left him ostensibly to volun- 
teer?” 

Denis bowed his head slightly in assent. He 
did not speak. 


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“Have you anything to say in your own defence?” 
inquired Pio. 

“Nothing,” said Denis. 

He was beginning to feel that the scene was 
unreal and a trifle absurd. These men were mak- 
ing a fuss about nothing. They made him feel 
as if he were playing the part of the suddenly un- 
masked villain in some transpontine melodrama. 
He smiled faintly, as if in response to his own 
thoughts. Did not the villain always smile con- 
temptuously upon the dull stuffy excellent people 
who had “found him out”? 

And yet, there was something in Pio’s attitude 
which bred a secret fear in his heart, and made 
him remember that he was no longer in his own 
country, but in one where men’s passions ran high 
and caused them sometimes to take the law into 
their own hands and punish those who had wronged 
or insulted them. Yes, he was alone and friendless 
here, and entirely at Pio’s mercy. Mercy? There 
was little suggestion of that suave quality in the 
Italian’s hard handsome face. 

“You came to our house representing yourself 
to be a person of wealth and position and good 
birth,” continued Pio, reverting once more to his 
icy tones, “and it was because we believed your 
word, that we admitted you to an unusual intimacy 
in our house. Mr. Ferringham is in a position to 
deny your statements and he also affirms that you 
were dismissed summarily from Sledwick just be- 
fore the War broke out. Is that the case?” 

Denis shrugged his shoulders. 

“This gentleman seems to have an intimate if 
inaccurate knowledge of my private affairs.” 

“You took advantage of your position here — of 
the friendship we had shown you — to make love 
to my sister. You have even extorted a confession 


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49 


of love from her, although I forbade you to men- 
tion the subject to her,” continued Pio, with rising 
anger. 

There was a knock at the door and Signor Basi 
came into the room. He went straight up to Pio 
and said something to him in a low tone. They 
left the room together, Pio shutting the door after 
him. Denis thought he could discern the sound 
of movement, of voices, in the hall. Was Camilla 
there? What was Pio saying to her? What did 
he mean to do with her? Then the great door was 
shut heavily; he could hear the bolts being drawn, 
and outside, beyond the windows, there was the 
sound of a motor-car moving swiftly, the throbbing 
of machinery, the shrill grating sound of changing 
gear as it mounted the hill to the gates. 

Did it mean that Pio had sent Camilla away? 

Pio came back into the room and his face was 
pale and slightly agitated. The parting scene be- 
tween brother and sister had been brief but poign- 
ant. Camilla had not wanted to go, she had clung 
to him in frenzied appeal, and Pio’s answers had 
been harsh and stern. He had not any^ pity for 
her. No one, least of all this beloved sister, was 
permitted to rebel against his authority. And 
Camilla had lent herself too willingly to Denis’s 
little intrigue. She should have repulsed his dec- 
laration of love instead of listening to it — and 
responding. She had let this infamous adventurer 
take her in his arms and kiss her. Pio ground 
his teeth at the thought. But he was determined 
to avenge his sister’s honor. Denis should learn 
a painful salutary lesson before he was permitted 
to leave Villa Ascarelli. 

Ferringham and Denis were still standing there 
in silence. Denis did not look up when Pio came 
into the room. Had he done so he would have seen 


AVERAGE CABINS 


50 

that there was a little smile of triumph upon his 
face. He had dealt with his sister, and now he in- 
tended to deal with Denis. ... 

“I think I have said all that I need, Mr Lori- 
mer,” he said coldly. “For the rest, Mr. Ferring- 
ham will communicate with you presently.” 

The words struck upon Denis’s ears with an al- 
most sinister significance. What did Pio mean by 
this enigmatic announcement, uttered in a tone that 
was slightly menacing? There was, however, no 
mistaking the gesture of dismissal that accompanied 
the words, and Denis slunk out of the room without 
saying another word. He was painfully aware of 
the abject nature of his withdrawal, but he felt 
too weak and nervous to go on playing a part be- 
fore these two men who had, so to speak, unmasked 
him. The scene had exhausted hird, had given him 
a return of his physical trouble; he could almost 
feel the deafening shells whizzing past him, to be 
followed by that dreaded explosion reducing men 
and beasts to shattered fragments . . . 

He walked unsteadily across the hall and mounted 
the wide marble staircase that struck so cold to 
his feet to-night. At the top he paused for a 
second and listened. No sound came from below. 
He entered his own room and closed the door. 

He switched on the electric light — a modern 
luxury which always seemed a little out of place at 
the Villa Ascarelli — -and then sat down by the win- 
dow, first opening it so as to let the spring air 
flow into the room. It was very dark outside, and 
the wide Umbrian valley, the great mountains, were 
all blotted into one immense shadow that seemed 
to envelop the whole world, broken only by those 
distant lights that pricked it here and there as if 
with fallen stars. 

The cool spring wind revived him, and for the 
first time he was able to collect his thoughts and to 


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51 


envisage the situation with something like clearness. 
Somewhere out in that darkness Camilla was travel- 
ing to an unknown destination, out of his sight, out 
of his ken. What were her thoughts towards him? 
Had Pio told her everything? Did she, too, re- 
gard him as an adventurer who had deceived them 
in order to obtain this intimate footing in the house, 
a position he was to use to try and win her for his 
wife? He would have given worlds to know then 
exactly what she thought of him and his deception. 
Perhaps she shared Pio’s anger, was shamed to 
think she had so readily responded to his words of 
love, his eager caresses. But he could hardly be- 
lieve that. Most surely had she loved him when 
she had sat close to him in the gathering darkness. 

He would follow her to Rome. He would start 
as early as possible on the following morning. He 
would circumvent Pio — he would not submit to his 
overbearing tyrannical decisions. He loved Ca- 
milla, and he was not prepared to let her go with- 
out a fierce struggle. For a moment he seemed to 
be sitting there with her among the gray olive- 
trees and the vine garlands and the fresh young 
wheat, with all the heavenly beauty of the Umbrian 
landscape spreading about them, and the golden 
light fading in the wide Umbrian sky. With a 
sense of overwhelming grief and despair he felt 
anew the touch of her hands, her lips, the pressure 
of her slight body against his arm. The full mea- 
sure of his loss came home to him then, and the 
tears gathered thickly in his eyes. 

A sharp knock at the door startled hirn. 

''AvantiP* he called in response, but his voice 
broke on a hoarse note. 

The door opened and Mr. Ferringham came into 
the room. His small soigne person was naturally 
so Insignificant that he scarcely looked like an ar- 
biter of destiny. Pio had said that Mr. Ferringham 


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would communicate with him, and Denis wondered 
idly what he would have to say. 

No hint of the truth had revealed itself to him. 
If he thought at all about the nature of that 
communication, he imagined it would take the form 
of a request to him to leave the Villa Ascarelli as 
early as possible on the following day. 

Mr. Ferringham held a card in his hand. 

“I don’t know if you’re aware of the usages of 
this country, sir,” he said in his slightly insolent 
tone, “but I must explain to you that you have 
offered an insult to his sister, which the Marchese 
Ascarelli is not prepared to overlook. It justifies 
him in challenging you to a duel to-morrow morn- 
ing, and he suggests that Signor Basi should act as 
your second” — he went to the door, opened it, and 
made a gesture to some one who stood waiting on 
the landing. Signor Basi, silent, with immovable 
face, entered the room. 

Denis stood there quite stupefied . . . 

His whole soul revolted at the thought of fight- 
ing a duel. He was a slighter, less strong man 
than Pio. Pio would certainly kill him. Had he 
escaped death so often only to fall ignominiously in 
a duel at the last? He stared at Mr. Ferring- 
ham and Signor Basi, but his dry lips framed no 
words. 

There was silence. Outside, a dog barked as if 
suddenly startled. He said at last: 

“Signor Basi, you will make all the arrangements 
with Mr. Ferringham, and then you will come and 
tell me what you have decided.” 

The two men bowed and withdrew. Denis sat 
down and rubbed his eyes. He felt as if he were 
dreaming and had been forced to play a part in 
some hideous nightmare. He wondered whether 
Pio would shoot him or stab him. And he wasn’t 


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53 


in a condition to fight ... It would be sheer mur- 
der. And he didn’t want to die. He was still 
young, and he had survived great perils and dan- 
gers. He had seen men mown down all around 
him and had wondered that he himself should still 
be alive and unscathed. And had he survived only 
that he should be struck down by an angry man in 
this shameful manner? 

Presently there was another knock at the door 
and Signor Basi returned. It was all arranged. 
The duel would be fought at daybreak, a little be- 
fore six, on the following morning. The weapons 
would be swords. ... A doctor would be in attend- 
ance. . . . 

“The Marchese is a famous swordsman,” added 
Signor Basi, almost apologetically, as if regretting 
that his master had had recourse to such extreme 
measures. 

“And I’m not. I have never fought with swords 
or foils in my life,” said Denis bitterly. 

“But he is also one of the finest shots in the coun- 
try,” said Basi with a slight gesture that again 
seemed to convey regret. 

Denis gave a little laugh that was rather ghastly 

“I’ve no doubt of it,” he said. 

“Shall I come and call you in the morning?” in- 
quired Signor Basi, his round black eyes fixed some- 
what uneasily upon Denis. 

“Yes, please. At five o’clock. I don’t want to 
keep the Marchese waiting.” 

Signor Basi bowed and withdrew. 

Downstairs Ferringham was saying in his super- 
cilious arrogant voice : 

“That man don’t look fit to fight, Pio. He had 
a bad bout of shell-shock after the War — he was 
laid up for ages in my cousin’s hospital in London. 
They thought at one time he’d never come round. 


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and he doesn’t look a bit normal yet. I can’t help 
wishing you’d give him a jolly good thrashing and 
have done with it.” 

“That is not our custom,” said Pio loftily, “and 
surely that would be a far greater degra- 
dation for him than any punishment one can ima- 
gine. It is more honorable for him to fight. I 
have chosen swords on purpose. I shall give him 
a sharp lesson — one he’ll always remember. But I 
don’t want to kill the scoundrel.” His brow dark- 
ened. 

“What are you going to do with your sister?” 
inquired Ferringham. 

“Camilla? Oh, didn’t you know? I’ve sent her 
away with Giulia — an old servant who has been in 
our family for a number of years.” 

“She has gone back to Rome?” asked Ferring- 
ham, flicking the ash from the end of his cigar. 

“Oh, no — he would be certain to try to follow 
her. I have sent her to my aunt in the Abnizzi — 
she will be most carefully looked after there.” 

“Do you think she really cared about Lorimer?” 
pursued Ferringham. 

“She may have thought she cared. . . . But 
Camilla is very reasonable. She often makes a 
scene at first, just as she did this evening when I 
brought her back to the house. But she has great 
confidence in my judgment,” added Pio with some 
complacency. “*I was never greatly in favor of the 
match. And now I shall see that she marries 
young Prince Forli. He is very rich and a charm- 
ing young man, and his mother is most anxious that 
he should marry Camilla. I may let her marry 
early in the New Year now instead of waiting till 
after Easter.” 

Mr. Ferringham had finished his cigar, and his 
face wore a perturbed look. He rose, went up to 
Pio and said: 


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55 


“Pio, my dear chap, think better of it! The 
man isn’t fit to fieht. It — it isn’t cricket! Tell 
him to go — ” His tone was urgent. 

Pio stared at him in astonishment and then broke 
into an ironic laugh. 

“I mean to give him a pretty sharp lesson before 
I’ve done with him,” he said, “but as I’ve told you, 
Ferringham, I haven’t the slightest intention of kill- 
ing the reptile. He thoroughly deserves all I shall 
give him.” 

Ferringham paused for a second, then he said: 

“He’s not altogether a wrong ’un, you know, 
though he’s done some pretty bad things in his time. 
My uncle always liked him — treated him as a son — 
wouldn’t hear a word against him, even after he’d 
found him out most gorgeously! I’m not telling 
you this because I like him, for I’ve got the greatest 
contempt for him. But I don’t want you to do any- 
thing you may be sorry for later on.” 

“Look here, Ferringham, I know you were my 
father’s friend and all that, but I can’t be dictated 
to by you now. I know my own business best, and 
I’m not going to have Camilla insulted by a needy 
adventurer and then let him go unpunished. I shall 
give him just what he richly deserves and no more. 
If you don’t care to be my second. I’ll send over 
to Villoni and get him to come.” 

There was decision in his tone. 

“Oh, I’ll be your second if you insist upon mak- 
ing a fool of yourself, Pio,” said Ferringham, tak- 
ing advantage of his position as an old family friend 
to speak with brutal frankness. 

“I am very busy,” said Pio, going over to his 
writing table; “I have several things to see to. 
Perhaps you would prefer to smoke upstairs?” 

He flung open the door and Ferringham, a 
little heavy-hearted, had no choice but to leave 
him. 


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CHAPTER VI 

D enis saw no one that evening except Signor 
Basi, who brought him some dinner, which he 
scarcely touched. He did not go to bed till a late 
hour, and spent the intervening time pacing his room 
like a restless spirit. 

His position struck him as appalling and yet a 
trifle absurd. He had a vague wish to go to con- 
fession, but he knew that Father Antonio could 
not give absolution either to himself or Pio under 
the circumstances. The whole thing was an anach- 
ronism. He did not wish to fight, and then he 
was no skilled swordsman like Pio, who had prob- 
ably fought other duels and regarded them as a 
matter of course. He had no wish to die here 
in a foreign country. There was no one to mourn 
him, unless Camilla loved him enough to do so, 
but penniless and at the end of all his resources 
as he was, and labeled for the second time with 
the stigma of dishonor, he yet clung to life for its 
own sake. But to refuse to fight would brand him 
as a coward, and Denis was not a coward. He 
only felt the whole thing to be so futile, so un- 
necessary. . . . 

“Pve got myself into a most confounded mess,” 
he said ruefully. 

To steal out quietly and leave Villa Ascarelli 
forever, was another course which for a brief mo- 
ment attracted him. But that would mean that he 
could never see Camilla again. He would have 
to leave Italy, a fugitive. And his determination 
to marry Camilla was very strong. There was 
weakness in her character and he would play upon 
that weakness. And in marrying her he would 
punish the haughty pride of Pio Ascarelli, who from 
being his friend had suddenly become his bitterest. 


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57 

most implacable foe. He had made enemies be- 
fore, but never with such disastrous results. Some 
men — such as old Lord Farewether, for instance 
— had found it easy to pardon him, to give him a 
fresh start. The thought of his former patron 
made him remember Mr. Ferringham’s guarded 
words to Pio. What did Ferringham know ? Had 
he found incriminating documents among the papers 
of Lord Farewether, who had died rather suddenly? 
He thought of Ferringham as the very impersona- 
tion of a malignant destiny. 

Denis spent a restless, almost sleepless night. He 
woke even before Signor Basi came to call him by 
knocking tentatively at his door. The first gleam 
of silver in the east revealed a broad bank of 
mist lying across the whole length of the valley. 
From it the higher slopes and summits of the moun- 
tains emerged, painted in dark sombre pansy-colored 
tones. They looked like aerial hills riding upon the 
white clouds of mist. They seemed apart and sepa- 
rated from the earth as if their summits had become 
detached and were soaring skywards. As the dawn 
brightened, this white bank of mist was touched to 
a pale rose color flecked with pure liquid gold. 
Nearer the house the woods showed but dimly; the 
trees were like furtive spectres indefinitely outlined. 
He was to go into those woods this morning and 
perhaps he would never emerge therefrom alive. 
It was a strange thing that he should so cling to 
a life he had deliberately wrecked and ruined. . . . 

Denis shivered and his teeth chattered. He emp- 
tied a flask of brandy into a glass and drank it off. 
The fiery liquid seemed to course through his veins, 
warming his whole system and revitalizing it. He 
took up the rapier with which Signor Basi had pro- 
vided him, and examined it carefully, feeling its 
sharp point, its finely tempered edge. Of course 
he had no chance with Pio, and he believed, too. 


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that Pio intended to kill him. He must not attempt 
to attack, only to defend himself from that prac- 
tised sword. ... 

It was a quarter to six, and Signor Basi was again 
knocking at the door. Denis opened it and handed 
him an addressed envelope. ‘‘If anything happens 
to me will you write or telegraph to this address?” 
he said. 

Of all that followed, Denis never retained any 
clear or succinct remembrance. He had a series 
of nebulous impressions, but often he had difficulty 
in recapturing even these. He could remember go- 
ing out into the chill yet fresh morning air, with 
Basi walking beside him; he could remember, too, 
that the very fact of Basils presence had braced 
him to a calm, almost callous exterior composure. 
They went together across the terrace, their faces 
and clothes drenched with the wet mist, and into 
the damp wood of ilex and cypress and gaunt 
stone-pine that lay beyond. The spot had always 
seemed to him like a classic woodland in its austerity, 
the formal disposition of its trees that never lost 
their leaves. To-day they looked as if they had 
put on mourning, and Pio’s words period of 
mourning** rang irrelevantly in his ears. He could 
not remember that he had felt any fear from the 
beginning to the end of the encounter; his principal 
sensation had been only that he was going “over the 
top” for perhaps the last time. But he could re- 
call feeling a mortal coldness that seemed to pene- 
trate to his heart and brain, even to his very 
bones . . . A coldness that must have been induced 
by the physical chill of that damp clinging mist that 
wound about the world that day like a white cruel 
serpent. All sounds and sights had been alike ren- 
dered muffled, indistinct, and almost monstrous by 
that mist. He could remember coming to the open 
space somewhere near the middle of the wood and 


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59 


seeing Pio already standing there, a tall, determined, 
powerful figure beside whom Mr. Ferringham 
looked small and shrunken. Another man was with 
them, probably the doctor of whom Basi had spoken. 
Mr. Ferringham had evidently not perceived Denis’s 
approach, for he was saying in his dry supercilious 
way: 

“You’d far better have given him a sound thrash- 
ing. Thrashed men never tell tales. You can’t 
hide a dead or a wounded man — ” He stopped 
short as he suddenly observed Denis walking to- 
wards them, and wondered if that “skunk” Lor- 
imer had heard any part of the speech. But Denis’s 
face was pale, cold, immovable. His dark eyes 
were dull and heavy. He showed no sign of any 
emotion at all. 

He could remember, still vaguely and as if the 
memory had been half-suffocated by that clinging 
blinding mist, standing on the spot designated by 
Signor Basi, whose face seemed unaccountably 
terror-stricken. He could remember, with slightly in- 
creased accuracy of detail, seeing the tall form of 
Pio Ascarelli looking huge, monstrous, almost dis- 
torted, beside the malevolent little figure of Fer- 
ringham. That Ferringham should have urged Pio 
to thrash him instead of fighting, had touched 
Denis’s pride to the quick, had braced his muscles 
and nerves to strange effort. Thrashed men never 
tell tales” He could remember thinking he would 
far rather wound or kill. Ferringham than Pio. ^ For 
after all Pio, until yesterday, had been his friend, 
his host, showing him, too, innumerable little acts 
of courtesy and hospitality . . . But Ferringham 
had come into the house, on purpose as it seemed, to 
precipitate disaster. Those little finicking hands 
of his had caused the Sword of Damocles to fall . . . 

He grasped his sword. He tried pluckily in a 
brave, wholly unskilled way, to resist the swift and 


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deadly attack of Pio, in whose practised hand the 
sharp rapier became like a living sentient thing, 
responding to the slightest muscular movement of 
supple wrist. And then he remembered no more, 
for the mist thickened about him and blotted out 
all sight of his adversary, and descended like a 
curtain, first white and then deepest black, upon the 
whole world. ... 

Of course there had been pain just before the 
mist played that curious trick upon him. A sharp 
cruel pain that made him feel, during that brief in- 
terval of consciousness, as if his left arm had been 
almost severed from his body. Then oblivion came, 
a sinking, as it seemed to him, into the very arms of 
death. . . . 

When Denis came to his senses, he was traveling 
rapidly down hill over a very rough road that 
jolted and violently shook the conveyance in which 
he was lying with his legs outstretched before him. 
He had not the least idea what had happened nor 
whither he was going; he was only aware of the 
utter discomfort of his position. The rumble of 
wheels, the whirr of machinery, seemed to torture 
his nerves and accentuate the physical pain which 
perhaps had brought him back to consciousness and 
to the world of sensation and suffering. He opened 
his eyes. That pale gray lining did not certainly 
belong to Pio’s great red automobile, which was up- 
holstered in dark blue ... A man sat opposite to 
him whose face he could not see. At first he 
thought it was Pio, but the silhouette drawn against 
the window was that of a much smaller slighter man. 
Not Ferringham? He could not see very well, but 
the man wore no beard, his face was clean-shaven. 

. . . He remembered seeing him once before in a 
wood . . . perhaps he was the doctor. . . . 

The hideous pain that seemed to rack his whole 


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6i 


body with its excruciating suffering, now gradually 
concentrated itself in his left arm, that was bound up 
in a kind of splint and secured in a sling. It was 
pain of a tormenting kind, and a sudden jolt over 
a particularly bad piece of road increased it to 
such a point that Denis gave a little scream. The 
scream relieved him and he screamed again, though 
even to his own ears it was a horrible shameful 
sound. But it wasn’t pain one could bear, even 
with clenched teeth, he assured himself. And any- 
how, why did they let him suffer like that? Far 
better put him out of his misery at once. He gave 
another scream and the automobile stopped. The 
man rose to his feet and bent over him. Denis 
felt a smart little stab administered with sudden 
violence. The drug worked quickly and he relapsed 
into that merciful oblivion from which pain had 
dragged him forth so mercilessly. . . . 

When he next awoke, the car had stopped, and 
he saw that he was lying in bed in a lofty bare 
airy room, with a woman dressed as a nun sitting 
beside him. 

He had been hurt, then. His left arm . . . Yes, 
pain was tearing at his left arm, gripping it with 
red-hot fingers, stabbing, burning, twisting the tor- 
tured nerves, the torn flesh, the severed muscles, 
eliciting a response that ran through his whole body, 
making it the very homie of tormenting devils. 

He bit back the cry that rose to his lips. The 
nun gave him something to drink — it was cool and 
refreshing, he drank it eagerly. Then he tried to 
think back, to remember exactly what had happened 
to bring him to this pass, but the events still lay 
buried in his subconsciousness. He wondered if he 
were in France. . . . the feeling that he had gone 
“over the top” was curiously enough still with him. 
He even hoped that his regiment had done well. A 
fine set of fellows — the best in the world. He 


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wasn’t fit to be among them, but he had at least 
tried to “make good.” 

But slowly, slowly, the mind traveled back, lift- 
ing the veil a little, pushing aside the mist as if it 
had indeed been a curtain that had shut him away 
and blotted out the classic woodland that rose be- 
hind the Villa Ascarclli. There had been some- 
thing a little shameful . . . Thrashed men never 
tell tales. . . . He could hear Ferringham’s arro- 
gant voice pronouncing those very words. Yes, he 
had urged Pio to thrash him, as if he had been doing 
him too much honor to challenge him to a duel. 
He felt the blood rise to his face. The mist came 
back. He saw Pio and Mr. Ferringham in the 
study, looking at a picture. Then mist again, trail- 
ing over everything like a cold white serpent, thick, 
suffocating, in its clinging cruel embrace. A flash 
of swords cleft it for a moment; he could hear 
the touch of steel upon steel. Then something shot 
out and struck him with sickening force, inflicting 
a pain that was surely unto death. ... A cry es- 
caped him. He hoped that he had fought well until 
that “burning moment” came. He hoped that he 
had shown no fear before that swift, practised, 
deadly attack of Pio Ascarelli. He was almost 
glad he had heard Ferringham utter those words; 
they had acted upon him as the touch of a whip 
acts upon a spirited thoroughbred. 

“Is . . . Pio alive?” he said, in English. 

But even as he spoke, memory returned, vivid 
and accurate in the picture it held up for his con- 
templation. He had only been called upon to de- 
fend himself, stubbornly, if clumsily; it was Pio who 
had attacked with strange ferocity and had sent 
this mad demon of pain into his left arm. Pio had 
surely suffered no hurt. ... 

The nun shook her head. She knew no English. 


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63 


But she rose and went out of the room, returning al- 
most immediately with a man, tall, youngish, wear- 
ing a long black cassock. Above the cassock and 
round white collar there was an English face, blond, 
serious, with shining blue eyes that were gazing down 
upon him with pitiful compassion. 

“John — how did you know?” 

“Some one called ‘Basi’ sent me a telegram,” 
said the priest gently. 

Denis put out his uninjured arm and touched the 
priest’s hand with his own. A sense of comfort 
in the midst of desolation stole over him. He 
was no longer alone. John Ponsford, best and 
dearest of men, was with him. The only English- 
man in Rome for whom he had felt anything like 
friendship. A man silent and guarded always in 
his comments upon other men, as if he feared ever 
to trespass across the boundaries of charity. A 
man wholly given over to his sacred calling, who 
only saw in his fellow men souls to be succored and 
saved. He possessed indeed in full measure that 
strange burning zeal which in all ages the Catholic 
Church has been able to evoke in her sons. 

“What did Basi say?” 

“Just, that you’d met with a bad accident and 
were hurt and that you’d asked him to send for 
me.” 

Denis gave a faint smile. 

“You see, I don’t know where I am,” he said, 
almost apologetically. 

“You’re in Florence. If you could look out of 
your window, you’d see the Dome and Giotto’s 
Tower.” 

“Should I? I don’t think I want to look at any- 
thing to-day.” 

“How did it happen?” asked Father Ponsford. 

“I was at Ascarelli’s place in Umbria ... the 


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64 

accident happened there. Fd rather not talk about 
it. It was very good of you to come.” He looked 
up wistfully into John’s face. 

“Oh, of course I came as quickly as I could. I 
left Rome last night.” 

“Shall I lose my arm?” asked Denis. 

Yes, he knew now that this had been the thought 
that had haunted him ever since he recovered con- 
sciousness. Would he bear the mark of Pio’s fierce 
wrath to his dying day? Would he have continu- 
ally to endure questioning as to “how it had hap- 
pened,” answering always with careful evasion of 
the truth ? 

John Ponsford’s face was very non-committal. 

“Indeed I hope not, my dear Denis !” 

“But what do the doctors say?” 

“They have said very little indeed, so far.” 

“But it’s a bad wound . . . The pain . . .” His 
face was momentarily distorted with agony. He 
longed to scream as he had screamed upon his 
journey. But John’s presence gave him courage. 

“Yes, yes . . . But try to bear it, Denis.” 

“You mustn’t leave me. . . .” 

“Not till you’re very much better.” 

Father Ponsford stood up, made the Sign of the 
Cross over the prostrate body of his friend and mur- 
mured the words of a Latin blessing. “Now I’m 
going into the next room and you must get some 
sleep. If the pain’s very bad you shall have another 
injection. So much depends, you know, upon your 
keeping perfectly quiet.” 

He touched Denis’s hand lightly and went out 
of the room. Then the nun came back and took up 
her old position by his bedside. Her lips and 
fingers moved. Denis caught a glimpse of shining 
metal. She was saying her rosary. Perhaps she 
was praying for him. Praying that he might have 
strength to bear the pain that was devouring him. 


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65 

Praying that the great lesson of suffering might not 
be lost upon him. . . . She had an old smooth face, 
wise and kind. Her hands were knotted and gnarled 
as if with age and rheumatism and hard worL 
Denis fell asleep. . . . 


CHAPTER VII 

F ather JOHN PONSFORD had known Denis 
fairly well and had seen something of him, too, 
during the first part of his visit to Rome that win- 
ter. They were acquaintances of some standing, 
having met first at Sledwick, where Denis had been 
treated with the greatest kindness by the late Lord 
Farewether, rather, so the priest had understood, 
against the wishes of the rest of the family. Ex- 
actly what had happened to terminate this ideal 
state of things. Father Ponsford had never ascer- 
tained, and for some months he had lost sight of 
Denis, only to meet him again in a French hospital. 
He himself was then acting as chaplain in 
France. He had helped Denis spiritually and materi- 
ally, and had heard later that he had been invalided 
home with shell-shock. After the Armistice he had 
reappeared in Rome, where John was continuing his 
studies, interrupted by the outbreak of War. 

John had always liked him, for there was some- 
thing attractive about Denis’s personality which 
drew other men to him and easily won him friends. 
Yet on looking back he knew that he had never 
felt sure of him. His mode of life in Rome had 
been decidedly astonishing for a man who had al- 
ways seemed poor and often struggling. He had 
come thither with wealth at his disposal, and he 
had gained admittance, possibly through Pio Asca- 


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relli, to several very exclusive houses.^ John won- 
dered what events had led up to this mysterious 
wound, but he at least suspected the truth. Pio 
Ascarelli was a man of violent temper, and there 
had been rumors for some time past that Denis 
had shown great attention to his young sister, Donna 
Camilla. Perhaps Pio had discovered somet ig of 
the affair. Denis had never been famed for pru- 
dence. 

It had been so odd, so mysterious, that curt tele- 
gram he had received, summoning him to Florence, 
signed by a name that was quite unknown to him. 
Father John had packed his bag and started forth- 
with, as indeed he would have gone to any fellow 
countryman in distress, but what he had found had 
only puzzled him still more. 

There was no word of any quarrel, nothing but 
this vague allusion to an accident. Yet this sword- 
cut, laying bare the arm from elbow to wrist, cutting 
down to the very bone, could hardly have been the 
result of an accident. It was the work of a man 
who knew how to use a sword with skill and de- 
liberation and violence. The wound was a pretty 
bad one, so the surgeon had informed him, but 
if no complic'ations supervened it was in a measure 
curable. 

“He’ll never have the full use of that arm again,” 
he had said, “and your friend is not in a good state 
of health to bear the shock of it too well. But 
he’s young — his constitution is fairly good, or was 
probably before the War.” 

“I believe he was invalided for many months 
with shell-shock,” said the priest. 

“Was he? I’m not altogether surprised. There 
are one or two puzzling features. This inability, 
for instance, to give any succinct account of how 
the — accident — occurred.” 

He broke off sharply. The young doctor who 


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67 

had accompanied Denis Lorimer to the private 
nursing-home in Florence had forthwith vanished. 
Had he taken him to a hospital, he would have been 
detained and interrogated; the police would have 
stepped in. He had merely said the wounded man 
was a British Officer, and that the hurt in his arm 
was afvd&ld affair which had unfortunately become 
troublesome. . . . 

“We didn’t touch him at first,” the surgeon con- 
tinued. “I only looked at the wound to-day and 
saw it was a fresh sword-cut. Probably there was a 
duel and they want to hush it up lest a lady’s name 
should appear I” 

“He won’t say anything to me either,” said Father 
John, “but then he’s always been a reserved sort of 
chap. Not given to talking about himself. There’s 
no danger is there?” 

The doctor paused and then shook his head. 

“Not — unless complications supervene, and then 
it would be awkward for us all. Hiding it up, 
I mean, in this fashion.” He looked slightly per- 
turbed. “Don’t you think you’d better tell your 
consul ?” 

“Not — at present — ” said Father John. He was 
unwilling to act without first consulting Denis, who 
was scarcely fit to be worried with formalities 
just now. “Does this clinic belong to you?” he in- 
quired. 

“No. It was a hospital for officers, run by pri- 
vate people during the War, and since then we have 
taken other patients, chiefly surgical cases. I’ve 
been running it lately for another man who is away 
on leave. We were short of nurses so I sent for 
a nun. The young man who came with Mr. Lor- 
imer left a large sum for expenses.” 

This item of news astonished Father John. But 
the whole story was mysterious and then, too, it had 
been hushed up with extraordinary skill. This sud- 


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den arrival at night — the bringing in of a half- 
drugged man purporting to be suffering from an old 
wound that had broken out afresh, the swift dis- 
appearance of his companion with the automobile, 
the roll of notes slipped into the surgeon’s hands 
“for all the expenses” — these were details that the 
doctor was able to relate, and which threw but little 
light upon the origin of the crime. For crime, in 
the doctor’s opinion, it undoubtedly was. 

“A violent blow^ — if it had fallen anywhere else, 
it would probably have killed him. There was a 
fresh hemorrhage early this morning — he lost a 
lot of blood, poor chap. That was when I first 
saw the wound.” 

“If there’s any danger, I must be told at once,” 
said Father John. “He’s a Catholic, you know.” 

“I thought so. There’s a medal round his neck 
— Madonna and the Sacred Heart. Do you wish to 
communicate with his people?” 

“I don’t think he has anybody belonging to him. 
His parents are dead — he was their only child. 
I’ve never heard him mention any relatives.” 

^^PoveraccioP^ murmured the doctor. 

He took leave of the priest then, for he had 
other patients who required attention, although none 
that intrigued him so much as this mysterious young 
Englishman. He had hoped that Father Ponsford, 
arriving so speedily from Rome, would have been 
able to throw some light upon the adventure, or at 
least upon the events that had led up to it. He 
was very little wiser, and he questioned the desi- 
rability of keeping silence to the authorities about 
the matter. The crime should surely be denounced 
to the Questura. 

“If he had had that hemorrhage on his way here, 
he would certainly have died,” thought the doctor, 
as he went off upon his ceaseless rounds. “It was 
touch and go as it was.” 


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69 

It was about a fortnight later, when Denis Lori- 
mer’s wound had almost healed, that Father John 
made plans for returning to Rome. He had stayed 
away as long as he could; his patient was now 
convalescent, having made a far more rapid re- 
covery than could possibly have been foretold, and 
he did not feel that to prolong his own stay in 
Florence would serve any useful purpose. 

But when he told Denis of his intention, he was 
horrified to perceive that the tears had gathered in 
his eyes. In another moment he was sobbing hysteri- 
cally, almost like a child. 

John Ponsford had an inborn aversion to any- 
thing that savored of lack of control. He was him- 
self self-disciplined to a most unusual degree, and 
thus he had complete command over himself, his 
actions, gestures, and speech. No one had ever 
seen John Ponsford angry. 

As he looked at Denis now, he had no contempt 
for his weakness; he had seen too many stricken 
nerveless men for that . . . But an immense com- 
passion welled up in his heart. Denis was clinging 
to him as a man suffering shipwreck will cling to the 
only plank that offers him aid. 

“You see, Pve got my work to do. Otherwise 
I’d stay on. But you will be going to England 
now, won’t you, Denis? If I were you, I should 
clear out as soon as possible. This has been an un- 
fortunate business, and though your — friends — ’’ 
he paused before uttering the word, “did their best 
to hush the whole thing up, there’s always a danger 
of people talking.” 

“I’m not going till I’ve seen Camilla and heard 
from her own lips that she doesn’t care for me any 
more!” Denis cried angrily through his sobs. 

“I think I should leave Donna Camilla alone,” 
said Father John. 

“She may be very unhappy — she may be waiting 


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for me to make some sign! I can’t be such a cur 
as to go away — without a word!” 

“Donna Camilla is very young. And she is en- 
tirely under the control of her brother. It’s some- 
times said that he’s harsh with her — I know nothing 
of that.” 

“And I could tell you,” said Denis, “just how 
cruel and harsh and tyrannical he is !” 

Almost unconsciously, he glanced significantly at 
his still-bandaged arm. 

“Was that Pio Ascarelli’s doing?” asked the 
priest. 

“Yies — curse him! He’s taken Camilla from 
me — he’s tried to kill me!” 

“Hush,” said Father John very quietly. “You’ll 
only make yourself ill if you go on like this. Asca- 
relli will never let you marry his sister if this is the 
way he’s treated you. You must have offended him, 
for he showed you great hospitality in Rome,” 

Denis relapsed into silence. 

“So the best thing for you to do is to leave the 
country as quickly and quietly as you can. if I can 
help you in any way — ” He paused. 

“Well, if you could lend me something — ” said 
Denis, in a slightly awkward tone. “I’ve about 
come to the end of everything, you know.” 

He smiled — that charming attractive smile which 
so often allayed the very suspicions that his conduct 
or words had excited. 

“But, my dear Denis — ^you were living en prince!^* 
Father John expostulated. 

“Yes, I know I was. I thought I’d have a run for 
my money for once. But these joy rides are short 
and sweet. Some of ’em play pretty high there, 
you know, and I’d won a bit when I was convalescing 
at Mentone. Dear old John,” he went on, “there 
arc no workhouses in Italy, and I’m not old enough 
to be eligible for the Little Sisters of the Poor !” 


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They both laughed. 

It was not the time to deliver a lecture on thrift. 
Not many hearts would have been found hard 
enough to reprove the poor Cigale as callously as 
did the industrious Ant in the fable. And John 
Ponsford had a very kind and compassionate heart. 
Men who are most stern with themselves are often 
least so towards others. He was sorry for Denis, 
knowing that this confession* of pennilessness must 
have hurt his pride. 

‘T’m going to be a beast, my dear Denis, and 
make conditions.” 

“Conditions ?” 

“Yes. I’ll lend you the money with all the pleas- 
ure in the world, only you must promise me faithfully 
that you will leave Italy at once — directly you’re able 
to move. You’d better not try to oppose Pio As- 
carelli— or you may get something worse than he’s 
given you already.” 

“I promise,” said Denis reluctantly. “Many 
people,” he added, with a rueful smile, “wouldn’t 
attach much importance to my promises.” 

“But I, on the contrary, believe you implicitly,” 
said Father John. 

“Dear old John — that’s awfully nice of you,” 
said Denis with a grateful look. 

“Perhaps you’ll be able to go back to Sledwick 
eventually, now you’re demobilized. You know the 
present Lord Farewether, don’t you? He may be 
able to do something for you.” 

Denis shook his head. 

“Oh, he was never a pal of mine. He’s a hard 
beast — not a bit like his father — we never got on. 
And besides, I never knock at the same door twice.” 

John took out his check-book and a fountain pen 
and proceeded to write. The sum of money was a 
large one — larger than he could well afford, for he 
had been extravagant in almsgiving that year. It 


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would certainly necessitate the sacrifice of a journey 
to England in the summer, and he had greatly wished 
to go to Wanswater, where his mother and sister 
lived in one of the most delicious parts of the Lake 
district. He had not been there for several years, 
and lately he had received some rather imploring 
letters from Janet, who lived alone with their 
mother at the old Grange. But he might manage 
a short visit later on — in the autumn perhaps. 
And in any case he would not send that order for 
books he had just completed. There were lots of 
ways in which he could retrench. . . . 

He handed the check to Denis, who looked at it 
and then flushed up to the roots of his dark hair. 

“John! It’s too much — I can’t take it. . . . 
You’re a good Samaritan and no mistake.” 

“You’ll want it,” said John; ‘‘things are pretty 
expensive in England now, and you may have to w^ait 
a bit before you find a job. Well, make haste and 
get well, Denis, and if you want anything you must 
always write to me.” 

He left for Rome on the following day, feeling 
anxious and still a little worried about Lorimer. 
The wound had left him very weak, and he was not 
the man to find employment easily. 

“I suppose he isn’t quite straight, and that’s why 
he’s always getting let down,” he thought to himself. 
And then this crowning folly of his, to try and 
marry Donna Camilla Ascarelli I Pio no doubt had 
been deceived by that appearance of wealth which 
Denis had displayed during his sojourn in Rome 
last winter, and had admitted him somewhat im- 
prudently to an intimate footing in his house. It 
had all ended most disastrously for Denis, and he 
would probably carry the disability consequent upon 
his wound, until his dying day. 

Denis was not a good correspondent. He v/rote 
one or two brief letters to John Ponsford, giving him 


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73 

details erf his progress towards recovery. One of 
these was posted at Florence, the second at Paris, as 
if to show him that he had faithfully fulfilled the 
condition laid down by John. And then the letters 
ceased, and Father John in the midst of his studies 
in Rome found time to feel very anxious about Lor- 
imer. He wondered what he was doing, what had 
become of him. He was the kind of man who so 
often goes under. 

In Rome, too, John heard the wildest rumors con- 
cerning Denis’s visit to the Villa Ascarelli, and of 
the subsequent events that had occurred there. He 
had tried to elope with Camilla because Pio had re- 
fused his consent to their marriage; they had been 
discovered* just in time, and a duel had been fought 
between the two men in which Denis had been se- 
verely wounded. This was the favorite version, 
and it was further reported that Camilla, having 
discovered the hour and place of the rendezvous, 
had appeared upon the scene and tried to fling her- 
self between the two men. But there were other 
versions no less disquieting. It was said that Pio 
had smiled upon the young Englishman till he had 
discovered something disgraceful in his past life, 
and then had insulted him, telling him to leave the 
house. Angry words had passed, Denis had struck 
at his host, and a duel had been fought in the ilex- 
wood above the Villa at an early hour on the follow- 
ing morning. Denis, in a dying condition, had been 
spirited away almost immediately in a hired auto- 
mobile, and the whole affair had been cleverly con- 
cealed from the authorities, lest Camilla’s name 
should get into the papers. 

John could not believe that any of these versions 
was strictly accurate, but he felt too that there must 
be a substratum of truth in them which in no way 
reflected creditably upon Denis Lorimer. But some- 
times he saw Donna Camilla driving in the Borghese 


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Gai'dens or on the Pincian Hill in the evening and 
was struck by her youth, her beauty, and her air of 
pensive sadnesa. Then he heard of her betrothal to 
a young Italian Prince, and the wedding took place 
in the early autumn, very quietly, owing to the com- 
paratively recent death of the bride’s mother. 

John wondered if Denis had heard all this news 
from Rome. But Denis had completely vanished 
and gave no sign. . . . 


CHAPTER VIII 

D usk — the warm rich-colored dusk of late 
autumn — had fallen upon London. Blue and 
orange in that deepening veil struggled for the mas- 
tery. There was still a glimmer of amber light in 
the west. The streets were crowded; the noisy traf- 
fic pursued its swift endless way; the pedestrians 
jostled against each other, old and young, rich and 
poor, in that fine democracy of the Road. 

The nearer approaches to a great railway terminus 
were blocked by a long line of cabs, taxis, carriages 
and motor-cars. Rows of porters stood there in 
readiness to deal with the luggage, handling trunks 
and boxes of all sizes and weights with the same ad- 
mirable ease that they might have accorded to a par- 
cel. Trucks were rapidly filled; men, women and 
children descended from their various vehicles ajid 
were swiftly lost to sight in the crowd. A sense of 
hurry and nervous rush seemed to affect most of 
these departing passengers, as if they feared that 
however early they might be, they were still not 
early enough to secure the best seats — those corner 
seats facing the engine which every self-respecting 
Briton demands for himself when traveling. 


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75 


It was a characteristic scene and a significant one, 
for few people set out on a journey without some 
sense of anticipation, some latent excitement. 

A man dressed as a priest, carrying a bag in his 
hand, came thoughtfully along the platform towards 
the book-stall. He was young — still probably in his 
early thirties, and his face and movements were alike 
youthful. He was tall, with very blue eyes that 
seemed to be half-unconsciously observing something 
that was far off. It had been John Ponsford’s look 
since boyhood, and it gave to his face an expression 
that was at once attentive and slightly mystical. 

He was stopped on his way to the book-stall by 
a hand laid suddenly upon his shoulder, while a 
man’s voice exclaimed: “John.! What a piece of 
luck!” 

The electric light was slightly obscured by the 
dark deposit of London smoke which clung to the 
great globes that enclosed it. For the hundredth 
part of a minute John was puzzled. The face 
looking down into his was shaded by a soft hat 
drawn low over the brows. He was aware of dark 
smoldering eyes gazing into his with a pleasant 
friendly expression that yet held something sardonic 
in it. 

“Why, Denis?” said Father Ponsford. He held 
out his hand and grasped Denis’s warmly. “I’d no 
idea you were in England. I think you were quite 
the last person in the world I expected to see.” He 
walked on with Lorimer by his side, wondering why 
he felt so little glad to see him again. 

“I want to get some papers. I’m on my way 
home — to Wanswater,” he remarked, as they ap- 
proached the book-stall. 

There are certain names which, apart from any 
beauty or music of their own, are apt to haunt our 
memories with a iov or sorrow that can alike be 
poignant. Lorimer could always remember the way 


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in which John uttered the word “Wanswater.’’ He 
knew, from his manner of doing so, that it held 
what must be very dear to him. 

“I shall sleep at Kenstone, so as not to keep them 
up late, and go on home in the morning,” continued 

“Lucky chap!” said Lorimer, smiling still. 

John was selecting papers — a heterogeneous lot, 
as Denis, watching him, decided. The T ablet y 
Universe^ Catholic Times and Country Life^ to- 
gether with some evening papers of varying hues . . . 
He stopped and then added the Queen, He remem- 
bered that Janet liked the Queen. 

He looked up quickly and said: 

“Lucky ?” 

“I mean — to have a home — people waiting for 
you. All the sort of thing we often hate when 
we’ve got it, and yet when we haven’t it’s — !” He 
shrugged his high thin shoulders. 

“I’ve always loved Wanswater,” said John simply. 
“But of course it wouldn’t be the same thing with- 
out my mother and Janet.” 

“Janet?” 

“Yes, my sister, the only unmarried one. She 
lives with my mother, you know — the only one out 
of all the eight of us that does.” 

He gathered up his papers and flung down a ten 
shilling note. Then he put the change loose into his 
pocket and turned away. 

“You’ve not told me yet where you’re going to,” 
he reminded Denis. 

Lorimer’s face was almost tragic then, in its sud- 
den bitterness. 

“I only wish I could tell you I” 

“But I mean — ^you must be on your way some- 
where?” John glanced at the shabby suitcase his 
friend was carrying in his right hand. . . . He no- 
ticed, too, for the first time, that the left arm hung 


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77 

stiff and straight from the shoulder, with an inert 
powerless look. 

“I thought of looking up an old cousin of mine 
who lives in Cumberland. She may shut her doors 
on me when I get there, but I don’t think she will. 
There’s a tradition that she was once in love with 
my father!” 

He said the words with a light contempt. Con- 
tempt for the woman who could have loved such 
an unworthy object as his own father so much as to 
be ready to bestow a sentimental and vicarious kind- 
ness upon his son. Contempt for himself because 
he was ready to use such sentimental weakness for 
his own ends. 

“I was just going to spend my remaining substance 
on a third-class ticket when I caught sight of you. 
So I bought a penny one for the platform instead 
and followed you.” 

John stopped and looked at him. 

“Haven’t you been able to find anything to do?” 

“Do I look fit to undertake any job?” Denis 
counter-questioned. 

John observed him critically and felt assured that 
he did not. Lorimer’s clothes were shabby, and he 
was very thin. His cheeks were hollow, and the 
bones on his temples were plainly visible. 

“You’re going by my train? We might travel 
together as far as Kenstone.” 

“It’s a gamble of course. She may refuse to see 
me.” 

A thought suddenly occurred to John Ponsford. 
He was always on the alert to observe even in little 
things the guiding Hand of Almighty God, and ever 
eager to obey Its slightest gesture. What if Lori- 
mer had been flung across his path to-night for a 
purpose ? What if this were a sign that he should 
show solicitude for this straying sheep? John tried 
to put the thought from him; it was not a welcome 


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one. He was looking forward to spending some 
very quiet weeks at Wanswater with his mother and 
sister, of whom he had had but rare and brief 
glimpses since his ordination to the priesthood a few 
years before. He was a convert, had been the son 
of a Dean of the Church of England, and had even 
for a couple of years been a clergyman himself. His 
mother had disapproved of his conversion, and he 
knew that she feared his influence upon Janet. 
There were certain things connected with his home- 
coming that made him believe it would be far better 
to arrive unaccompanied by a stranger who was 
totally unknown to his home circle, and who, as a 
Catholic, was unfortunately not particularly edify- 
ing. 

John was standing now in the compartment he 
had chosen, arranging his small luggage upon the 
rack. Below him on the platform stood Lorimer’s 
tall lean rather gaunt figure. He felt the man was 
waiting for something. Perhaps — the offer of a 
loan . . . John colored slightly as the thought 
entered his mind, almost as if it had been a guilty 
one. Yet Denis was, by his own showing, down on 
his luck. A sudden pity welled up in John’s heart 
for this forlorn failure ; it broke down all those ob- 
jections which had so recently seemed quite insuper- 
able. He said, almost apologetically: 

“Would you — would you like to come to Wans- 
water with me for a few days ? I’m sure my mother 
will be delighted. . . John Ponsford spoke hes- 
itatingly, but he watched Lorimer’s face, now 
raised to his with an eager incredulous look. Then 
it was almost as if a veritable sob of relief escaped 
from him, for something seemed to catch his breath 
as he made reply: “Oh, do you really mean it, 
John? Shouldn’t I be awfully in the way?” 

“No — I shall love to have you. Look sharp and 
get your ticket. He took out a leather case and 


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79 

drew forth some Treasury notes, thrusting them 
into Lorimer’s hand. 

Denis took them and rushed off to get his ticket. 
John sank back in his seat. His action had been 
swift, impetuous, and utterly against his better judg- 
ment, and yet he had felt that he could not refuse to 
hold out a helping hand to this fellow Catholic. 
But he was obliged to look the consequences of his 
action steadily in the face, and it was at best an un- 
comfortable process, full of misgivings and fore- 
bodings. There was no time to warn his mother. 
She had always been the soul of hospitality during 
his father’s lifetime. “Open house” had been the 
order of the day; they had seldom been alone. But 
the company had been strictly and almost exclusively 
clerical. English clergy of all ranks and of varying 
views, from bishops to curates, had visited them, 
accompanied by wives of all ranks too, titled and 
smart, provincial and shabby. . . . The Dean, a 
man of liberal views and strong will, had welcomed 
them all in his hearty, slightly boisterous way. 

But Mrs, Ponsford did little entertaining in these 
days. She was always ready to receive her sons and 
daughters, their wives, husbands, and children, when- 
ever they wished to come, but apart from her own 
family she had few visitors. And what would she 
say to this shabby derelict? No doubt she would 
have preferred to see her son quite alone after an 
absence of several years. His first visit of any 
length since he had become a priest, and then to 
bring with him this slightly damaged-looking, out- 
at-elbows fellow Catholic ! But the thing was done 
now, and he must make the best of it. If the situ- 
ation proved intolerable he could make some excuse 
to go awa^r for a few days, taking Denis with him. 
That occasional theatricality about the man secretly 
annoyed John Ponsford. It made him seem not 
quite genuine, and he could not blind himself to the 


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effect it would inevitably produce upon his mother. 
John was sensitive about his mother’s opinion; he 
was a devoted son, and had been grateful to her 
because her disapprobation of the course he had 
taken had never permitted her to change in the least 
degree towards him. There had never been any 
storms of protest such as tore the hearts of so many 
converts; on the contrary, he had discussed the mat- 
ter with her in each of its progressive stages. She 
had always known that he was unlike her other sons, 
Stephen, Giles and Curtis. He had none of the 
calm conservative tone that had characterized his 
father; he could never have faithfully followed a 
mere family tradition; he must seek for himself even 
if the quest promised anguish. John had reached 
this point in his meditation when Denis Lorimer re- 
appeared. He put his suitcase on the rack, awk- 
wardly in one-handed fashion, but resisting John’s 
attempt to help him. Then he sat down in the cor- 
ner seat opposite to Father Ponsford. 

“What about food?” said Denis. 

“We can dine on the train,” said John. 

As a matter of fact he had provided himself with 
sandwiches, for he was a man to whom personal 
comfort counted for little. But he spoke on the 
spur of the moment, having become suddenly and 
poignantly aware of the lurking appeal in Lorimer’s 
eyes. 

Hunger . . . Again he felt some confusion at 
his own readiness in discerning the man’s thoughts 
with such peculiar accuracy. Body and soul were 
alike starving. He took down his bag and handed a 
packet of sandwiches to Denis. 

“You’d better have some of those. Dinner won’t 
be just yet.” 

There was a clamorous slamming of doors, and an 
ear-piercing shriek from the engine. With a faint 
tremor that shook that long line of linked carriages. 


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the train moved slowly forward, and then* pursued 
its swift way through London, past lighted suburbs 
and into the long spaces of darkness that hid the 
northern fields from their sight. 

And Denis was sitting there, devouring the food 
with an eagerness he did not try to conceal. 

“I wonder how long it is since he had anything 
to eat,” John thought. 

All through the journey northwards, they did not 
speak of Rome. John had not the courage to ask 
him if he had heard of Donna Camilla’s marriage to 
the young Prince Forli. It was a relief to him 
when he saw Denis stretch out his long limbs and 
fall peacefully asleep. 


CHAPTER IX 


J ANET PONSFORD was restless, and her 
mother, aware of the fact, was exerting herself 
not to comment upon it. It was an exercise of self- 
control on her part, for anything that resembled the 
process she was wont to stigmatize as “fidgeting,” 
wrought havoc with her own nerves. 

The pale illumination of an autumn morning that 
was mild and sunny irradiated the square paneled 
room at Wanswater Grange in which Mrs. Ponsford 
usually sat. It was called the library, because the 
late Dean’s books were arranged there and practi- 
cally covered one side of the walls. They were not 
interesting books, nor did their solid gloomy bind- 
ings render them exteriorly attractive. They were 
chiefly theological; many of them, collected sermons 
of long-forgotten Protestant divines. A few were 
commentaries. 

Mrs. Ponsford and her daughter were waiting for 


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John’s arrival. In his letter, posted in London 
two days before, he had told them he intended to 
sleep at Kenstone so as not to arrive late at night. 
‘‘Dear considerate boy,” Mrs. Ponsford had mur- 
mured. John, the youngest of her eight children, 
was still in her eyes a child. 

It was now nearly twelve o’clock and he had not 
come. Something must have delayed him in Ken- 
stone. His non-arrival accounted for Janet’s im- 
perfectly restrained restlessness. She sat idle by 
the window. Mrs. Ponsford was near the fire, knit- 
ting. She glanced at her daughter from time to 
time. No doubt she shared that slight misgiving 
that was teasing her own mind with regard to John. 
He was to be with them this time in a new guise, that 
of a Catholic priest. Last time he had visited them, 
it had been only for a few hurried hours before his 
ordination. Would they find him greatly changed? 
Mystical adventures set their mark upon a man just 
as surely as physical ones. The strange impet- 
uous energy, the flood of charity for others, the 
burning zeal of this the youngest and least typical 
of all the Ponsfords, would now be diverted to and 
concentrated upon the one channel. The impetus 
of the whole character would no doubt gather 
strength and purpose from it. 

She had never discussed the matter with her 
daughter. But both had secretly determined from 
the first that John should see no difference in them. 
Both in their own way adored him. Janet’s adora- 
tion had, however, a pathetic quality which her 
mother’s lacked. 

Mrs. Ponsford could have traced John’s spiritual 
odyssey step by step. He possessed less of the 
family quality which Sara, Stephen Ponsford’s bril- 
liant American wife, had nicknamed “Ponsfordism” 
than any of the others. You could catch glimpses 
of it still, despite his sixteen years of married life 


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83 

with such a singularly un-Ponsfordy person as Sara, 
in Stephen himself. It was strong in Curtis, too 
strong; it had helped him to embitter a life that 
had not been too fortunate. Strongest of all in 
Giles, now a Vicar in the South of Devonshire, but 
that was his wife’s fault, Sara used to say. She 
had asked to be a door-mat and she had got just 
what she wanted. Mrs. Ponsford’s daughters, the 
widowed Lady Bradney who had made the match 
of the family, Louisa Dacreson, and Margaret For- 
tune, all possessed something of it after their meas- 
ure. In Janet’s rather weak character there was 
no trace of it to be found. 

John had begun, like Giles, as a curate in the 
Church of England. He had been soundly trained 
by his father in those Liberal Broad Church views 
which had made the late Dean — a typical Pons- 
ford — so famous. He was at Oxford when his 
father died — the Dean had died rather suddenly — 
and while there, he fell in with a party of young 
High Churchmen who burned incense in their rooms 
and held a mysterious service called Complin, A 
confusion of ideas and aims became at once percep- 
tible to John, who had drunk in so dutifully the 
Broad Church teaching of the late Dean. He had 
accepted it much as he had accepted his father’s 
opinions on politics, free trade, and modern lit- 
erature. The Dean had always spoken as if he 
really believed that no sane man could hold views 
different from his own, and perhaps it was this 
quality which lay at the root of all Ponsfordism. 
John was a little disturbed at first, to find himself 
with men who held entirely opposite views on the 
subject of religion, and were equally certain that 
they were the only plausible and possible ones. But 
he went on with his studies, did remarkably well 
both in “Mods” and “Greats,” was considered one 
of the finest classical scholars of his year, and finally 


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went down with a passion of regret in his heart. 
He was ordained subsequently, and went to Brighton 
as curate. Brighton was ever the home of ritualism 
and John’s position at first puzzled and then alarmed 
him. He found it difficult to convince himself, as 
other men seemed so easily to be able to convince 
themselves, that he could be a Catholic in a Prot- 
estant Church. Explanations and discussions only 
served to increase in his own eyes the extreme and 
perilous falseness of his position. After a year or 
two of unutterable misery, he went abroad to France 
and Italy, and in the ancient and splendid cathedrals 
and churches of those countries he found all that 
for which he had been unconsciously seeking. He 
gave up his curacy, vanished for a time, and when 
he next appeared at Wanswater he was already a 
Catholic. From the first, his eyes had been fixed 
upon the priesthood. He was ordained priest dur- 
ing the years of the War, acting first as a chaplain 
in France, and then returning to Rome to finish 
his studies. 

Mrs. Ponsford disapproved, chiefly because she 
considered her son’s action was a slur on his father’s 
memory. Why couldn’t he have been satisfied like 
Giles? But she was not narrow. She only feared 
the effect of his conversion upon Janet. They were 
to be together for the first time for any lengthy 
period since his conversion. They would have end- 
less opportunities of seeing each other, of discuss- 
ing the subject. Perhaps she had better give John 
a hint. But that would be to reveal her own fears. 

She looked at Janet. Poor Janet — sitting there 
with her hands folded idly in her lap. She had 
already reached the age of thirty-five, and had al- 
ways been considered too delicate to “think about 
marriage.” Life had also withheld from her any 
experience of love. ^ She was slightly old-maidish in 
appearance, and this made her look more than her 


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85 

age. Her clothes were never quite in the fashion, 
for except just during the season, few smart people 
were to be seen in the environs of Wanswater. She 
had pretty hair, with a tinge of dark red in its 
brown, but she wore it dressed in a plain unbecom- 
ing manner. Her eyes were blue like John’s, but 
they were more wistful than keen. They were un- 
imaginative eyes, and had the innocent, unawakened 
look of a child’s. She had never been considered 
pretty, yet there was something not wholly unat- 
tractive about her face; it had the peculiar refine- 
ment that springs from purity of vision and com- 
plete selflessness. John found her charming. He 
had always had a great deal to tell her, from the 
time when he had come home from his first school 
for the holidays, unfolding to her eager sympathetic 
ears his vast plans for the future. But he had had 
less opportunity of being communicative about those 
stormy spiritual experiences through which he had 
more recently passed to a safe shelter, and perhaps 
in her heart she had understood the reason of his 
silence concerning them. 

It had never been a Ponsford habit to speak 
of intimate spiritual things. One went to church; 
one discussed the singing — how shockingly out of 
tune the choir sang this morning; and the sermon — 
what a tiresome monotonous voice the new curate 
had! — and that was all. . . . Only one sentence 
from John’s letters had given Janet any clue to her 
brother’s happiness after taking that step of which 
so many of the family had darkly predicted ill. 
“I have found all that I hoped to find, only so 
much, much more.” Yet he had been brought up, as 
she herself had been, on the Dean’s immense con- 
tempt for “Rome” and all that it stood for. How 
any one in their senses! . . . That was how he 
had invariably begun his energetic diatribes. But 
John had freed himself from the tyranny of ancient 


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prejudice. He would learn for himself. He went 
to the Door and knocked. And, as slowly the door 
opened to admit him to the freedom of that spiritual 
city, he found within an unimaginable holiness, a 
beauty, an unmeasured security. That first sense 
of complete and intimate approach to the One Whom 
for so many years he had tried blindly to serve, 
had never left him. And in security of faith there 
was a spiritual peace which the anxiety and fret of 
daily life could neither touch nor disturb. 

“Janet, you are idle this morning. Haven’t you 
any needlework to do?” 

Mrs. Ponsford looked over her spectacles at 
Janet. Her own white plump capable hands manipu- 
lating knitting-pins and white wool with extraordi- 
nary, almost mechanical rapidity. 

There was something forlorn and uncompanion- 
able about Janet, she thought. Something that, in 
moments of tension like the present, was apt to 
get on one’s nerves. So unnatural, too, for a young 
woman to sit with idle hands. Novel-reading was 
not permitted in the morning. It had been a whole- 
some schoolroom rule, and Mrs. Ponsford had never 
thought it advisable to relax it. 

“No, Mamma,” said Janet. She was looking out 
of the window, her ears astrain for the sound of 
wheels. What would Johnny be like now? Would 
it all have changed him so very much? Those 
terrible scenes in France during the War? And 
then to be a priest — to say Mass . . . She felt as 
if he must have passed through deep, flooding, but 
withal comforting waters whither she could not fol- 
low him. 

“You can go on with that crossover. The gray 
crochet one — it’s in my wool bag. You’ll find the 
hook there — the larger one of the two. You must 
think of the cold shoulders, Janet, the rheumatic 


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87 

shoulders!” Mrs. Ponsford smiled at her daugh- 
ter, but in the brisk stimulating tones one recognized 
the voice of authority — the voice of a woman who 
had ruled her eight children, her household, and 
her servants, kindly and wisely, but firmly. And 
every one had possessed complete faith in that 
governance except perhaps this sad-looking little 
daughter. 

Janet rose with perfect meekness and fetched the 
crossover and crochet-hook from the capacious wool- 
bag that lived upon its appointed shelf in the deli- 
cate old Sheraton corner cupboard. Then, resuming 
her seat by the window, she began to crochet, slowly, 
clumsily, with unskilful fingers. She hated crochet, 
but it was easier to learn than knitting, although 
the dull monotonv of it was loathsome. She dis- 
liked with an almost fierce aversion the “feel” of the 
coarse gray wool between her fingers. 

Mrs. Ponsford glanced at her with an approbation 
that was blended with contempt. 

“Poor Janet,” she thought, “she’s the only one 
without brains. Still, I can’t have her idle.” 

A clock struck with deep reverberating chime. A 
quarter past twelve. Perhaps he wouldn’t come 
home in time for lunch, after all. . . . 

“John’s late — perhaps he wasn’t able to get to 
Kenstone last night,” said Janet. 

But even as she spoke, they heard a sound^ of 
wheels coming heavily over the moist gravel drive. 
There had been rain in the night. Janet had 
lain awake, listening to its eerie splashing against 
the windows, to the cry of the wind, so like a human 
cry sometimes. 

She made a movement now as if to rise. She 
wanted to run out into the hall and greet John, and 
ascertain for herself that he wasn’t changed — that 
he cared for her as much as ever. But Mrs. Pons- 
ford did not move, nor did her hands cease their 


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rapid and practised and intricate activity. They 
heard voices, footsteps, the opening and closing of 
doors, then the library door was flung open and 
John Ponsford, looking very tall in his long black 
overcoat, came into the room. 

Behind him was another figure, a man, taller even 
than John, and lean and spare. He wore his black 
hair brushed off his forehead in a singular manner, 
and his pale face was lit up by a pair of dark intel- 
ligent observant eyes. 

“Mother^ — Fve brought my friend, Mr. Denis 
Lorimer, with me. You said you and Janet were 
alone, so I knew there’d be heaps of room. Denis 
— my mother and sister.” 

John embraced his mother, and then Lorimer 
stepped forward, having watched the little scene 
with a kind of sardonic envy. 

Now, it was Janet’s turn. She felt herself 
gathered by John’s strong arms as she lifted her face 
for his kiss. She even trembled a little with excite- 
ment. Oh, why had she tormented herself with 
this fear that he might have changed? It was one 
of those morbid imaginings of hers that he would 
have been the very first to condemn. She clung to 
him. . . . She had almost forgotten the presence of 
this stranger. “Dear, dear old Jane!” she heard 
him murmur. 

Lorimer stepped gracefully across the room to 
where Janet was standing, holding the crossover 
of harsh gray wool in her left hand. 

“How do you do. Miss Ponsford?” She heard 
Lorimer’s voice then for the first time; it was lan- 
guid, she thought, and rather womanish. She felt a 
little awkward and bewildered. John hadn’t said 
anything about bringing a friend with him. And 
the name’, Denis Lorimer — such a pretty name!— 
was quite unknown to her. 

“Janet,” said Mrs. Ponsford, “you must go and 


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tell Hodge to have the blue room prepared for Mr. 
Lorimer.” 

“Yes, Mamma,” said Janet. 

She went to the Sheraton cupboard, and replaced 
the crossover and crochet-hook in the capacious wool- 
bag. Everything in its Place — the nursery rule still 
held, and it had become second nature to her. Then 
she went quietly out of the ro'om, glad to get away 
from the eager questioning gaze of those brilliant 
dark eyes. Amused, enthusiastic eyes that belied 
the slightly bitter expression of the well-molded 
lips. She had never seen eyes like that before. 
One might easily imagine them to be the windows 
from which an imprisoned soul looks out upon a 
world of suffering. Some curious fancy of the kind 
was in Janet’s mind as she went out of the room. 

Who was he? John had never mentioned the 
name in any of his letters from Rome. Was he per- 
haps a Catholic, too? Were all John’s friends 
Catholics? Her curiosity concerning John’s re- 
ligion was passionate but secret; she was often 
afraid that her mother might discern it. Would 
John ever speak of it to her intimately? She 
longed to know more, to lift the veil that seemed 
suddenly to have dropped between them. 

She went in search of Hodge, once nurse and now 
confidential maid and general factotum. Her faith- 
fulness and devotion were constantly extolled by all 
the members of the family except Janet, to whom 
it seemed, indeed, that there was something sinister 
in those very qualities. It made her think of the 
ivy that clings to a tree, and slays even while it 
clings. That was, however, one of her secret wicked 
thoughts which she never breathed aloud even^ to 
John in those moments of desperate self-revelation 
when he had always known just what to say to 
soothe and comfort her. 

“Hodge, Father John’s brought a friend with 


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him — a Mr. Lorimer. He’s to have the blue room, 
and yes, I think you’d better light the fire.” She 
made the last suggestion timidly. But the day was 
chilly despite its fairness, and yesterday’s rain had 
left a dampness in the air. She had an idea, too, 
that this man must be accustomed to comfort and 
would be little likely to share Johnny’s austere views 
about mortification. Having given this order, re- 
ceived in silent acquiescence by Hodge, she went up 
to her own room. 


CHAPTER X 


FTER the death of her husband, a powerful, 



irritable, dominating man who had endeavored 
to set the seal of his own personality upon each of 
his eight children, Mrs. Ponsford had expressed 
a wish to return to Wanswater, in the Lake Dis- 
trict of Westmorland, where her girlhood had been 
spent. It had been suggested by more than one of 
her children in the first days of her widowhood that 
a flat in London would make an ideal abode for her- 
self and Janet. But Mrs. Ponsford had never 
lived in a flat, and indeed to many people of her gen- 
eration there is still something almost lacking in 
dignity about such a circumscribed place of residence. 
Still less did such modern appliances as electric light, 
telephones, gas-rings, hot-water-circulators, and 
radiators appeal to her. She wanted a house, a 
roomy rambling old house with a large garden, and 
cedars on the lawn. She found these desiderata in 
Wanswater Grange, and thither she had departed 
some ten years before this story opens, accompanied 
by Janet, John (then at Oxford), Hodge, and a 
diminished staff of servants. Janet was to be the 


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companion of her declining years, for even at the 
age of twenty-five there had of course been no idea 
of Janet’s ever marrying. It was quite characteristic 
of Mrs. Ponsford that she did not consult Janet’s 
opinion in regard to the proposed change, although 
she^ was one of the principal people to be affected 
by it 

Mrs. Ponsford had settled down quite happily in 
her new abode, perfectly contented with the modi- 
fied interests and activities it offered to her. Grand- 
children came thither for change of air, or when 
their parents wished to go abroad, or to recoup 
after infantile maladies. In the early days Curtis’s 
children, during the absence of their father in India, 
had spent their holidays at the Grange. There were 
two of them, a boy and a girl, and they were the 
eldest of all the grandchildren, for Curtis, the third 
son, had made a very youthful and imprudent mar- 
riage when he first went to India as a subaltern. 
His wife died soon after the birth of little Curtis, 
as he was still called in the family though he was 
now a full-fledged subaltern. Molly, the daughter, 
had been married now for some months to a young 
officer called Charles Firth. But even in those early 
days they had shocked their grandmother indescrib- 
ably by the mingled dislike and contempt they had 
shown when speaking of their father, and of those 
particular qualities in him which made up what 
Sara had called “Ponsfordism.” But Curtis was 
said to have been a harsh father, and Sara — ever 
averse to authority in its sterner aspects — took the 
children’s part and was wont to say, “No wonder !” 

Mrs. Ponsford did not feel quite at ease with her 
grandchildren, of whom there were a great many. 
They seemed to her so unlike, in disposition and 
outlook, her own well-trained, highly-disciplined 
children. They were for the most part modern and 
quite fearless, with bright engaging manners. With 


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the exception of Curtis’s two they were on terms 
of friendly comradeship with their parents. There 
was scarcely a hint of Ponsfordism in the rising 
generation, except among Giles’s brood, who were 
regarded as provincial by their cousins and rather 
despised for their lack of savoir faire. 

Stephen, the eldest of the family, had married a 
wealthy American, and like Curtis he had two chil- 
dren, a boy and a girl. The latter, who was called 
Pamela, was perhaps the most modern and typically 
up-to-date of all the grandchildren. She was fifteen 
now, and had inherited her mother’s beauty and 
something too of her wit, her clear vision, her in- 
ability to call a spade by anything but its right name. 
Janet had often found herself envying this lovely 
attractive child upon whom so much love was 
lavished, so much money spent. Her very educa- 
tion was conducted on the most expensive lines. 
She had a real gift for music, and during her holi- 
days was often taken abroad to hear good music and 
to have violin lessons from celebrated players, in 
order to supplement the training she received in 
London, and the knowledge she acquired from a 
constant attendance at the opera in her mother’s 
box during the season. Sara spent as much time 
and thought upon her daughter’s clothes as upon 
her own. And Stephen, who had been brought up 
in all the traditions of a Ponsford, never interfered 
with any part of Pamela’s education. 

Louisa Dacreson, the eldest daughter, had half 
a dozen children, girls for the most part who pos- 
sessed modern ideas about independence, and wills 
that were strong enough to put their theories into 
practice. Louisa had quite lost control over them 
during the War, when they had worked in offices, 
acted as V. A. D.’s in hospitals, and even driven 
motor-ambulances. The second daughter, Violet, 
Lady Bradney, having given her husband the re- 


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93 


qulred heir had ceased from further maternal effort. 
“Not at all a satisfactory boy,” Mrs. Ponsford used 
to murmur, “but then Violet has always spoiled him. 
I warned her how it would be and so did your 
dear father.” She preferred Giles’s brood; they 
were, she used to allege, much more like what Ste- 
phen and Giles and Louisa had been, nicely-behaved 
children with a wholesome fear of parental author- 
ity. Margaret Fortune, the third daughter, had 
three girls, the most traveled and cosmopolitan of all 
the grandchildren, as their father had held several 
posts as military attache at foreign embassies, and 
they could speak with perfect fluency several Euro- 
pean languages, gifts which had obtained for them, 
despite their youth, excellent posts in the Censor’s 
office during the War. “So much more dignified 
than driving a motor-van,” Mrs. Ponsford used to 
say. Yet with them also — the children of wealthy 
and indulgent parents — the old lady felt secretly ill 
at ease. They shared the life of their parents and 
seemed to demand constant amusement, the means 
to follow expensive pursuits and hobbies; in a word, 
they belonged to a new world, costly, extravagant, 
luxurious. The compulsory economies and auster- 
ities and limitations brought about by the War had 
only served, as it seemed, to give these young people 
a keener zest for the pursuit of all those pleasures 
which peace permitted them to enjoy. 

The difference between them and her own children 
seemed to. old Mrs. Ponsford a vital and even a 
terrible thing. 

She was now seventy years of age, being exactly 
twenty years older than her eldest son. She seldom 
left the Grange, having a preference for her own 
four walls, where there was certainly comfort of 
a solid antiquated kind to be found. She was rather 
in appearance like a comfortable sleek white cat 
that prefers its own hearth and would resist the 


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kindliest attempts to dislodge it. Her habits were 
regular and had changed but little during the last 
fifty years, except that there were now no children 
to demand her care. Every morning, weather per- 
mitting, she took a walk in the garden and some- 
times even went as far as the village, leaning on 
the faithful if bony arm of Hodge. Every after- 
noon she drove for two hours, in an open or closed 
carriage (according to the season) drawn by a 
single quiet horse and guided by an ancient coach- 
man who was very deaf. Nor did Janet ever leave 
home except so rarely that it hardly counted. It 
was a tradition in the family that all excitement 
was bad for her, increasing that tendency to heart 
attacks from which she had now for many years 
periodically suffered. She had hardly ever been 
separated from her mother, and she did not even stay 
with her married sisters, although Violet Bradney 
repeatedly invited her to do so. 

The Grange was a low and rambling white house, 
built of the dark slate that is so typical of West- 
morland, but whitewashed because Mrs. Ponsford 
on first coming to live there had found its sombre 
exterior depressing. Sara had condemned the step 
unhesitatingly; she said one might just as well have 
whitewashed the Tower of London! . . . Origi- 
nally it had been quite a small building, but it had 
been enlarged and developed from time to time 
to suit the needs or caprices of its various owners. 
Judging by the results, it might be conjectured that 
domestic rather than artistic reasons had determined 
these excrescences, or “wings” as Mrs. Ponsford pre- 
ferred to call them. Much overgrown with creepers 
— always an insult to really beautiful architectqre, 
while tender and often gracious in its softening effect 
upon inferior buildings — the Grange presented in 
these latter days an appearance that was rather 
charming. It stood on a low and partially wooded 


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95 


eminence overlooking the lake of Wanswater at al- 
most its narrowest point. In the distance the rugged 
shapes of the Eastern Pikes — that splendid range 
of inaccessible-looking mountains — ^were ranged 
against the sky, clear and beautiful in fine weather, 
dark and stern after rain, and often hiding them- 
selves completely behind relentless seas of cloud 
that seemed to stoop to swallow them up. To the 
west the long and sloping shoulder of Wansdale 
Raise lifted itself from the green valley and ended 
in a remote blunt summit that at sunset was wont 
to display wonderful pansy tones against a golden 
sky. 

The place was undoubtedly beautiful, set in per- 
haps the loveliest and most romantic scenery in Eng- 
land, but its solitude made itself felt — a solitude so 
intense it was almost sinister. 

Certainly there was nothing to excite Janet in 
those remote surroundings. She might, when she 
first came thither, a grave wistful-eyed girl of 
twenty-five, have conceivably felt something of the 
restlessness common to young wild things enclosed 
in cages, but if she had done so, she gave no sign of 
it. She was silent too, as if something of the 
quality that so characterized her surroundings had 
fallen upon her. She was still a little afraid of 
her mother, for the complete control which Mrs. 
Ponsford had exercised over her in nursery days 
had never been relaxed. She had been still more 
afraid of her father, who had regarded her as 
obstinately and wilfully stupid. She was so un- 
like the rest of those gay, shouting, laughing, squab- 
bling, irrepressible children, who were nevertheless 
so well-disciplined and subjected deliberately to pri- 
vations in the matter of food and warmth such as 
only stern necessity compels children of the present 
day to undergo. Cold rooms and cold water, chil- 
blained hands and feet, were the order of the day 


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in winter. The food was plain and not very 
petizing, except to ravenously hungry people. To 
go supperless to bed was no rare thing. Janet 
could even now remember the long, long walks — 
far beyond her meager strength — which had been 
the daily torment of her childhood, when she had 
been constantly chidden by an irate Hodge for “lag- 
ging” behind. She often could not eat the food, 
and dreadful cold remains were put before her at 
supper by the same inexorable disciplinarian. And 
if she failed a second time, harsher measures were 
sometimes adopted. Or perhaps Hodge would say 
with pursed lips and a grieved expression to Mrs. 
Ponsford, “Miss Janet has been very naughty again 
to-day ma’am.” “Then I can’t kiss you good-night, 
Janet,” her mother would say. That was terrible 
— to see her mother coming in and going her nightly 
rounds when the children were in bed. First Janet 
could hear her go into the next room where Louisa 
and Violet slept. A little murmur of conversation, 
the sound of kisses, and then the brisk step would 
enter the smaller room, still called the night-nursery 
and shared by Margaret and Janet. Janet used 
to lie there praying passionately that her mother 
would relent just this once. But after lingering 
a little with Margaret — always a favorite with her 
parents — Mrs. Ponsford would leave the room with- 
out so much as a glance towards Janet’s bed. The 
door closed upon that retreating figure, and Janet 
would hide under the bedclothes and weep the facile 
tragic tears of childhood. Was it so very wicked 
not to be able to eat mutton fat, or to keep up with 
the others when one was so very tired? It wasn’t 
as if she’d told a story or quarreled with any one. . . . 
Mrs. Ponsford was an excellent attentive mother to 
her brood of strong vigorous normal children, but 
she did not understand this pale little changeling. 

And just as Janet had accepted her lot in child- 


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hood, so she continued to accept it in this, the fourth 
decade of her life. Things had not really altered 
very much. The Dean was dead, and his loud voice 
(he had always addressed her as if she were deaf) 
could no longer startle and terrify her. But her 
mother was there and Hodge was there, and their 
watchful vigilance never relaxed. She had long 
ago given up dreaming that marriage would some 
day afford a way of escape. Her sisters had all 
married, not too young, with the solitary excep- 
tion of Violet Bradney, who went off at eighteen, 
and Janet had envied that wonderful independence 
which marriage seemed immediately to bestow upon 
them. Louisa was supposed not to get on too well 
with Algernon Dacreson, a selfish, self-concentrated 
man, as much like a Ponsford as was possible for 
a person who had not had the advantage of being 
one by birth. But she had her children, to whom 
she was devoted. No one had ever asked Janet 
in marriage, and of course she was too old now — 
and too delicate. But sometimes she would re- 
member how a brilliant gifted woman older than 
herself had been lifted from a sofa in a darkened 
London room, and borne away by the vigorous arms 
of a passionate lover, to find life and joy and 
strength in the sweet climate of Italy. Her family, 
with no thought of cruelty, had condemned their 
poetess to die upon that sofa. Perhaps she would 
so have died if there had been no Robert Browning 
to love and rescue her. And she was to know fif- 
teen years of married happiness before she closed 
her eyes to that vision of earthly love. 

Janet repressed such thoughts as these whenever 
they came to her; she did not dwell upon them, for 
she felt that they must be wrong. She had been 
taught to Do her Duty in that State of Life. . . . 
But whenever she thought of Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning, something within her rebelled. She was 


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98 

not gifted, it is true; her education had been a little 
neglected because she was slow, and the succession 
of governesses had preferred to give their attention 
to the brilliant Violet, the industrious Louisa, the 
charming Margaret, rather than to waste it upon 
one who would certainly never do them any credit. 
But she was younger and stronger than the poet- 
woman whom Browning had rescued — she had not 
lain on a guarded sofa in a darkened London room 
for five years. . . 

But her life was normally so quiet, so free from 
any change, that even the coming of this stranger to 
Wanswater had disturbed her equanimity. His 
singular face and brilliant eyes had arrested her 
attention. She could feel his eyes still upon her, 
with their intent, searching, yet careless gaze. Per- 
haps he had expected to find John’s sister a pretty, 
young, and well-dressed woman. Not a dowdy, 
plain, elderly spinster with country-made clothes and 
shoes. Janet was under no illusion as to her own 
aspect, except that she judged it too harshly and 
was blind to her own good points — the delicate 
modeling of her face, the large wistful blue eyes, 
the slightly downward curve of her mouth when 
she smiled, that often redeems quite a plain face, 
giving it an individual unusual quality. Janet only 
saw her unfashionably dressed hair, so much 
less bright than it used to be, her dull skin, her 
oddly-made clothes — the work of a village dress- 
maker. 

She wondered how long this man would stay at the 
Grange. She hoped it would not be for many days, 
for it was such a long time since Johnny had stayed 
with them, and she wanted to have him all to her- 
self. In any case she wouldn’t see a great deal of 
her brother, for of course Mrs. Ponsford would 
claim the lion’s share of John’s leisure. And then 
there were her own little duties — she wouldn’t be 


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allowed to forego any of them in order to see more 
of Johnny. There would be the dreadful, inevitable 
walks and drives, the long hours spent “sitting” 
with her mother in the library, doing that useless 
crochet. And then if Mr. Lorimer were there, too, 
to claim his share of Johnny, there would be very 
little left for her . . . 

She wanted achingly to talk to Johnny. 

There was a sudden knock at the door, and John 
himself appeared upon the threshold. 

“Darling Jane,” he said smiling, “may I come 
in? There’s just ten minutes before lunch.” 

And he came across the room and kissed her. 

Janet mentally decided that if Johnny had changed 
at all in, the course of those strange spiritual ex- 
periences through which he had passed, it had only 
been to become more pronouncedly perfect. His 
expression had always been sweet, with a kind of 
eager natural gaiety, but there was a new tender- 
ness in his face now, as if the very charity of his 
heart had been passed through the fires of that 
mysterious crucible, and refined and perfected in 
the process. She put her arms round his neck and 
kissed him. A sudden peace possessed her heart. 
Like Hamlet’s friends, John pulled out the stops of 
those he was with, but they were always the stops 
that made their music seem more sweet and vital. 
He was, she felt, especially made to deal with 
souls, to win them, to lead them, to . . . save them. 

They sat down side by side near the window. 
On that golden autumn morning the lake looked 
almost blue. In the distance the dark shapes of 
the Eastern Pikes were like jagged, gigantic teeth 
against the clear colorless sky. 

A little yacht went by; her white sails looked like 
a butterfly’s wings poised upon the water. 

“Well, what do you think of Lorimer?” asked 
John suddenly. 


100 AVERAGE CABINS 

“Oh, I’ve hardly seen him, hardly spoken to him,” 
said Janet 

“He’s a bit down on his luck,” said John care- 
fully, “that’s why I brought him. Otherwise, you 
know. I’d rather have been alone with you and 
the mater. But I met him on the Euston plat- 
form, and I persuaded him to come with me in- 
stead of looking up an old cousin of his somewhere 
in Cumberland. We were delayed this morning, 
getting a few things he wanted in Kenstone — that’s 
why we were late.” 

This simple explanation secretly astonished Janet. 
She had not associated this graceful distinguished- 
looking man with any kind of financial stress. Like 
most women who have lived always at home and 
only dealt with a small dress-allowance, she knew 
practically nothing either of the worth of money 
or the cost of living. She had money of her own, 
for although the Dean had left her less than her 
sisters, with a reversionary interest, however, in 
part of her mother’s jointure, Janet’s modest in- 
heritance brought her in six hundred a year. She 
could have claimed control over it had she so 
wished, but such an act of rebellion would have been 
impossible to Janet. When her mother said that 
with the exception of one tenth, which was to con- 
stitute her dress-allowance, her income was to be 
pooled with her own jointure for the upkeep of the 
Grange, Janet acquiesced without demur. No 
dream of independence had ever prompted her to 
claim her money. 

“"It’ll do him good here,” continued John, “you 
and the mater and this quiet house. And Mass 
every day. I must see about turning that attic into 
a little chapel. iPve got a traveling altar and vest- 
ments with me, and all sorts of permissions and 
faculties.” 


AVERAGE CABINS loi 

“Then Mr. Lorimer’s a Catholic, too?” asked 
Janet 

“Yes. That’s really why he’s got a special claim 
on me. And then we knew each other pretty well 
in Rome, and I saw a lot of him when he hurt his 
arm. Did you notice his left arm? He can hardly 
use it at all.” 

“Oh, was he wounded?” asked Janet. 

“Not in the War,” said John quickly; “he served 
three years, though, and then was invalided with 
shell-shock. I felt I ought to help him.” 

“Yes, yes, I see.” She was thinking of Lorimer’s 
strange face, unlike any other she had ever seen. 

“He’s an awfully good sort in many ways, but 
he’s never had a chance. I’m thankful I ran up 
against him.” 

Janet listened in silence. John’s description of 
his friend seemed to her slightly irreconcilable with 
his appearance and manner. For Lorimer did not 
look like a man who was down on his luck or 
who needed help, material or spiritual. Still less 
did he look like a man in acute financial stress. 
Rather, he had the air of one who quite naturally 
considers himself superior to his surroundings. 
There was almost a touch of arrogance in his de- 
meanor, as if he were conferring a favor upon a dull 
solitary house like the Grange by condescending to 
visit it. And then ... he had needed to buy 
things — she supposed at Johnny’s expense — in Ken- 
stone. ... 

“So you must be very nice to him, Jane, and make 
him feel thoroughly at home,” continued John, with 
his charming smile. It was rather as if he were en- 
treating her to overlook any idiosyncracies that his 
friend might chance to reveal. 

“Won’t he find it very dull here?” asked Janet. 

“Oh, no; the quiet and the rest are just what 


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he needs. He’s had a pretty strenuous time these 
last months.” (John had learned a good deal of 
Denis’s recent history on their way to Wanswater.) 
“And I know I can tell you all this without any 
fear of your repeating it.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Janet. “And I’m glad you 
brought him. But I wish we could have had you 
to ourselves for a few days first.” 

“I should have liked that best, too,” said John. 
“It’s never quite the same with some one else here. 
And he isn’t exactly your sort either — yours and 
the mater’s. But I know you’ll be kind to him 
— that’s what he wants. Make him feel at home.” 

Janet said slowly : “But, Johnny dear, if it comes 
to that, we’re not his sort either, are we? I could 
tell that, by the way he looked round the library. 
All in a moment, you know. Of course, Sara says 
our rooms want doing up dreadfully, and that we 
ought to burn the ‘rubbish of years,’ as she calls it.” 

“Never mind Sara. Because it’s just the homeli- 
ness, the old-fashioned charm of the place — that 
he’ll appreciate.” 

Janet did not answer. She tried to believe that 
John had accurately gauged his friend’s character 
and needs, but she herself felt less assured as to 
their ability to offer him anything that he would 
really appreciate. 

“Now tell me about yourself,” she said. “There’s 
so much I want to hear.” 

“Oh, there isn’t much to tell. A priest’s life 
isn’t very eventful, and it means pretty hard work. 
But, then, it’s more wonderful than one can tell 
on the spiritual side. Sometimes I can hardly real- 
ize it all, but, oddly enough, Lorimer helps me to 
do so. You see, if I weren’t a priest, he wouldn’t 
take things from me as he does. Things such as I 
have to say to him sometimes.” 

“You mean — he’s your penitent?” she said, thrill- 


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ing a little as she thought of the two men as priest 
and penitent. 

“No, not yet, and indeed I hope never. But 
I want to get him to the point of becoming some 
other priest’s penitent. . . .” He bent a little to- 
wards her. “Dear old Jane, you must help, too, 
won’t you? You’ll make him feel at home, as if he 
were wanted? He’s absolutely alone in the world, 
and he’s never had a sister of his own.” 

No one ever called her Jane except this beloved 
brother. The two youngest of a long family, they 
had formed a little group to themselves and were 
intimates from childhood. Indeed, as little children 
they had been inseparable. Janet was two years 
his senior, but she had been backward and delicate 
and John had ever taken the lead. Perhaps no 
one else had ever treated her so completely as if she 
were a normal human being. If only for that 
reason, he would certainly have earned her undying 
gratitude. 

“Yes, yes, Johnny,” she promised him now, 
eagerly. 


CHAPTER XI 

W HEN the gong sounded for luncheon, 
Janet went downstairs. She felt timid and 
nervous, and yet was determined to do her best to 
make Lorimer feel both welcome and at home. He 
was in the library with her mother and John when 
she entered it. At luncheon she sat opposite to him. 
Fortunately, there was no need for her to talk — 
unless she were actually addressed — for Mrs. Pons- 
ford was very conversational and liked to “hold the 
floor.” She talked easily and copiously and con- 
tinuously. References were made to the Dean, his 


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unforgotten work, his fame, his popularity. Even 
Hodge’s long and faithful service was touched upon 
during the brief absence of Watson — the aged man- 
servant — from the room. Lorimer listened, and his 
brief comments showed that he was listening with 
the respectful attention which Mrs. Ponsford seemed 
to demand of her interlocutors. A Catholic born 
and bred, this kind of Church of England talk was 
new to him. 

The meal was an excellent one, well cooked and 
admirably served. He found no fault with it for 
being slightly on the solid old-fashioned side. 
There were fried soles, roast mutton, apple tart and 
abundant cream. Only Janet, stimulated to a new 
discernment by John’s words, noticed that Lorimer 
ate with a certain eagerness. Not exactly raven- 
ously, but as if he were unusually hungry. Per- 
haps there hadn’t been much time for breakfast in 
Kenstone. . . . 

She was rather relieved when the meal came to 
an end. She had an idea that Lorimer wasn’t quite 
so deeply interested in the late Dean’s sayings and 
doings as he pretended to be. And how could he 
care to hear about Hodge? Mrs. Ponsford, how- 
ever, obviously held a different opinion. 

In the afternoon John took Lorimer out for a 
long walk, and Janet, as usual, drove with her 
mother. They had tea alone together, for John 
had not returned. Janet did not see them again 
before she went up to her room to perform that 
nightly operation known as “dressing for dinner.” 
Her choice of garments was not a large one, for 
clothes played a negligible part in her life. She 
was always very neat and tidy, but her dresses were 
never very fashionable, even when quite new. They 
all looked alike, she used to think sometimes, half 
discontentedly. She was not extravagant, and sel- 
dom spent all her allowance, although Sara had once 


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laughed at its inadequacy, and said: “Why, my 
dear, I couldn’t manage Pamela’s hats and shoes on 
that!” 

The black velveteen dress that Janet wore night 
after night throughout the autumn and winter, was 
already two years old. It was getting shabby — 
curiously enough, she had never noticed that till 
to-night — and the cut was, she knew, old-fashioned. 
It was modeled to the figure, instead of falling in 
loose straight lines. She wished she had listened to 
Sara last summer when she had come down for a 
few days and suggested that Janet should allow her 
maid to run up a tea-frock for her. “Just the kind 
of thing to slip on over your head for dinner when 
you’re alone,” Sara had said. “You’ll find it 
most awfully useful.” But Janet, actuated by some 
obscure motive of pride, had refused the offer. Her 
dresses were not nearly worn out yet, she explained. 
And even now she could hear Sara’s merry laugh as 
she cried: “My dear, what an appalling idea! I 
should think not, indeed!” 

Janet put on the black velveteen dress, which 
Hodge had laid in readiness upon the bed. She 
regarded herself discontentedly in the long mirror. 
Yes, it fitted too closely and the sleeves were tight. 
It showed her spare angular figure to disadvantage. 
The skirt was too full, and fell in folds about her 
feet. She thought of Sara’s slim short skirts, her 
silk stockings and charming little shoes. She had 
a strong conviction that Mr. Lorimer would have 
preferred to meet a woman of Sara’s type, smart, 
cheerful, gay, and very intelligent and good-humored. 
Sometimes, indeed, her acute intelligence almost 
frightened Janet. It hit so unerringly the right 
nail on the head, and sometimes it was the very 
nail whose existence one had tried to hide. . . . 

She went down to the library. When she entered 
it she saw that Lorimer was sitting there alone. He 


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was not in evening dress, but wore the same dark 
blue suit in which he had traveled to Wanswater. 
She thought he looked distinguished and slightly 
arrogant. Surely John must have made a mistake 
about his poverty . . . 

He looked younger, too, than Janet had thought 
him when he first arrived. He was perhaps several 
years younger than John. He hardly looked 
thirty, with the light from a rose-shaded oil lamp 
falling upon his face. 

She was tongue-tied, and wished that her mother 
had been there with her glib easy chatter. Mrs. 
Ponsford could hold her own in that respect even 
against assembled grandchildren, all eager to pro- 
nounce their opinions. 

Lorimer raised his eyes and looked at her. 
Rather a pathetic figure, this elderly sister of John’s. 
Pretty eyes, though, and the hair was still a charm- 
ing color, though he suspected it of having faded 
*a good deal. Fancy being condemned to spend one’s 
life in this forlorn spot with that garrulous master- 
ful old woman! John had sometimes spoken to 
him of Janet with sincere enthusiastic admiration, 
and he had pictured her younger, brighter, more a 
woman of the world. Still, he was sure that she 
had qualities, the qualities of her type. Fidelity, 
devotion, kindness, unselfishness . . . He smiled as 
he drew a chair nearer the fire for her. But she 
did not take it. It was the chair consecrated for 
many years to the sole use of Mrs. Ponsford. 

“Thanks — I’m not cold. 'I think I’ll sit away 
from the fire.” 

“I’m afraid you must hate my being here,” said 
Denis, with an engaging smile. “And to tell you the 
truth, I feel a most awful intruder. Naturally, you 
must have wanted to have John all to yourselves. 
Honestly, I’m most awfully sorry, but he didn’t 
really leave me any choice. I had to come I” 


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It was so exactly what she felt must have hap- 
pened, that she looked slightly guilty, as if he had 
read her thoughts*. Her words were an eager 
stammered denial. 

“Oh, you mustn’t talk about being an intruder! 
We’re very very glad to have you. Only it’s so 
quiet here, especially at this time of year, and we 
have so few visitors . . . you may find it fright- 
fully dull.” 

She spoke earnestly, mindful of John’s injunctions 
that she was to try to make Denis feel welcome and 
at home. 

“Oh, I shan’t find it dull,” he assured her. “I 
want rest and quiet and peace more than anything 
else in the world.” (He might truthfully have 
added “and regular food,” but he refrained.) 
“Just the very things I’m sure Wanswater can give 
me. And it’s awfully good of you not to mind my 
being here.” 

As he spoke, she felt his eyes upon her — those 
brilliant, dark, searching eyes, like lamps for bright- 
ness — and involuntarily she turned her face a little 
away from him. She did not feel at ease with him 
and his presence seemed to produce a kind of trou- 
bling effect upon her that she could not analyze. 
This man had a history, so much she had gathered 
from John’s brief and guarded utterances; and 
did not he himself admit that he had need of rest 
and peace? She had a growing curiosity to know 
what had brought him to this pass. 

He was a Catholic, and perhaps John’s first and 
principal motive in befriending him lay in his hope to 
benefit him spiritually with help and counsel. To 
bring him to the point, as he had admitted, of be- 
coming the penitent^ of some other priest. It 
seemed strange in this Protestant household, with 
its sturdy Protestant traditions. But, then, John 
had freed himself from those traditions; he was 


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loB 

heart and soul a Catholic, ardent, zealous, passion- 
ately attached to his Church. 

“Our meeting last night at Euston was a most 
fortunate thing for me,” said Denis. 

“I . . . T’m so glad,” said Janet. 

“I might call it providential,” he added with a 
short dry laugh. He had never been particularly 
sanguine about his old cousin’s reception of him. 
And John had told him that he expected to stay 
at the Grange for at least a month. If he played 
his cards well — and how superhumanly careful he 
intended to be! — he too might enjoy its warm and 
opulent comfort, and regular and abundant meals, 
for the space of four weeks . . . 

His own room was perfect, large, with two big 
windows looking out upon that divine Wanswater, 
with its reedy shores and green pastures and splendid 
woods, and beyond, the Eastern Pikes lifting their 
great fantastic fangs to the sky. Thanks to Janet 
— though he did not know it — a generous fire burned 
in the ample grate. There was a big writing-table, 
carefully stocked with all the necessary materials; 
even a book of stamps had not been omitted. A 
large bed, a spacious armchair, solid mahogany furni- 
ture with dark gleaming surfaces — he had noted all 
these details with considerable satisfaction. The 
water was plentiful and hot, and Johnny had told 
him there was a bathroom “just opposite.” Yes, 
there was a great deal to be said for unpretentious, 
old-fashioned comfort. For it was typically and, 
as he believed, almost exclusively English ; one never 
found just that quality of comfort abroad, where, 
when it existed at all, it was wont to resemble 
the rather barren impersonal luxury of a first-class 
hotel. 

He felt certain that to-morrow morning he should 
find the bath water hot, and a cup of tea by his 
bedside. . . . Yes, he would be a Sybarite, with all 


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his wants adequately supplied during four whole 
weeks, and this for the first time since he had left 
the nursing-home in Florence. There should be no 
mistakes this time, nothing to recall the disastrous 
termination of his visit to Villa Ascarelli. And 
then quite suddenly Camilla’s face rose up before 
him. She seemed to be saying: Pio is never for- 
giving when people deceive him. So little forgiv- 
ing, indeed, that he, Denis, would bear the mark of 
his hostility to his dying day. He glanced at his 
left arm hanging straight and stiff, almost like an 
artificial one, in the shabby blue sleeve. He had 
never been able to afford the massage, the expensive 
electrical treatment, which the surgeons had recom- 
mended. 

Janet intercepted the glance, and she said very 
gently : 

‘^Does it hurt you very much?” There was 
something pitiful in her blue eyes as she raised them 
to his. 

“Yes — a good deal. It’s quite useless, you 
know.” 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. 

“Thank you,” said Denis. “It wasn’t done in the 
War.” 

“So John told me. You wouldn’t have minded so 
much if it had been, I expect ?” 

“I suppose not. John didn’t tell you how I got 
hurt?” 

She shook her head. “No, he didn’t tell me.” 

Denis felt relieved. He wanted to close down 
that chapter of his life. Camilla was Princess Forli 
now, obedient to Pio as ever. But the torment of 
losing her had not left him. He had never ceased 
hoping till the day when he heard of her marriage. 
Hoping far some word, some sign, he had written 
again and again, but he had never received a single 
word in reply. She had banished him from her life 


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and memory at Pio’s bidding, just as surely as she 
had banished Ilda. Something of that past sharne 
and humiliation was with him then, darkening his 
thoughts. The wound* that had pierced his arm 
was only symbolic of that deeper wound that had 
torn his heart. He wondered if he should ever 
find courage to speak of it to this quiet, gentle, com- 
passionate woman at his* side. He felt that per- 
haps some day he might tell her. . . . 

Yet there was something cynical, too, in his de- 
termination to play his cards carefully and well, dur- 
ing his stay at the Grange. He would be patient 
with John’s efforts to reform him; he might show 
signs, from time to time, of a slow and difficult 
yielding. He would display a proper interest in 
the sayings and doings of the late Dean, and in the 
fidelity of the old servant. And this sister of John’s, 
this kind, mild, ineffective creature, he could surely 
manage her all right. He had an idea that the per- 
son most difficult to propitiate would prove to be 
“the old woman,” as he irreverently dubbed Mrs. 
Ponsford in his thoughts. Something of dear old 
Johnny’s obstinacy and astuteness there. But he 
would “gang warily”; it was worth while taking a 
little trouble in order to keep this “cushy” place. 

Janet’s voice struck in upon his thoughts: 

“If you find it too quiet and lonely here — if 
you ever feel bored — ^you can always make some ex- 
cuse to John, and go. . . .” She made the sugges- 
tion more as if she feared, than as if she hoped, 
this might happen. And in her voice too, there was 
a touch of repressed envy that did not escape him. 

“I assure you, my dear Miss Ponsford, I shan’t 
in the least want to go away. The only fear is that 
I may trespass too much on your hospitality. I’m 
never bored, you know, and I’m overwhelmingly 
grateful to you for receiving me so kindly.” 


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His dark eyes met hers squarely. She lowered 
her own before them — she could not bear their bright 
searching scrutiny. In all her remembrance of 
Wanswater, its walls had never received a guest 
of this type. She thought of her brothers, sedate 
elderly men, with the solitary exception of John; 
she thought of their well-bred conventional wives 
(she did not include Sara, who was anything but 
conventional, in this category), then of her own 
sisters with their bald and excellent husbands, pros- 
perous and poised. This man had stepped out of 
another world, and it was surely a picturesque and 
romantic world. Yet he asked only to be permitted 
to remain here ... at Wanswater. . . . 

Mrs. Ponsford bustled into the room. She wore 
a dress of silvery gray satin, chosen for her by 
Violet Bradney, who assured her the color would 
“tone with her hair.” About her plump shoulders 
a shawl of old lace was skilfully draped; she wore 
a few fine diamonds. With her white hair, the 
clear rose-leaf tint of her skin, she looked charming. 
She had been very pretty in her youth and had never 
forgotten the fact. She smiled at Lorimer, who had 
sprung up with swift agility at her approach. 

His movements, Janet thought, were wild and 
graceful, like a deer’s. 

All through dinner that night, Lorimer talked 
rapidly and easily. It seemed, too, that he brought 
John a little out of his shell and induced him to talk 
more than usual. He asked questions about mutual 
friends and acquaintances in Rome, and when Lor- 
imer sometimes uttered an Italian name, lingering 
over the syllables as Italians themselves do, Janet 
felt entranced at those musical vowel sounds. 

“You’ve never been in Rome, Miss Ponsford?” 
said Denis. 

Janet shook her head. “I’ve never been abroad.” 


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She thought with sudden envy of Pamela, to whom 
“going abroad” had been a yearly experience, at 
least until the outbreak of war. 

Mrs. Ponsford said calmly: 

“My daughter is too delicate to travel.” 

Janet flushed. She wished they would forget her 
health for just one day, and especially before 
strangers. 

“Oh, but that’s a great mistake,” said Lorimer, 
smiling; “the most confirmed invalids can travel 
quite easily in these days of motor-ambulances and 
trains-de-luxe. There’s no difficulty at all. And 
Fm sure Miss Ponsford isn’t a confirmed invalid.” 
There was a glint of mockery in his dark eyes as he 
looked at her now. 

To dispute the fact was fatal, as Janet knew. 
But Mrs. Ponsford was naturally good-humored, 
and she contented herself with saying: 

“Well, invalid or not, I know it would be far too 
exciting an experience for my daughter.” 

And Janet thought of that other woman, who 
had lain upon a sofa for five years and had been 
carried away to Italy, to grow strong and well and 
to be the happy mother of a little son, and her heart 
felt hot and indignant within her. 

Lorimer’s eyes glanced quickly, almost furtively, 
from mother to daughter. Not much similarity 
there. The old story, perhaps, of selfishness and 
sacrifice. The daughter bound by chains to the 
mother’s side. No will of her own — no escape 
from her prison. Too delicate? Nonsense! 

John said quietly: “I’d like Janet to see Rome.” 

They began to talk anew about Rome. Janet 
was thankful when the conversation was turned from 
the subject of her health. She was so well, between 
those mysterious attacks that every one dreaded so 
for her. She never retained any clear memory of 
them, but they left behind them a physical weakness 


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113 

that prostrated her and almost seemed to rob her of 
life itself. If it hadn’t been for those results, she 
would not have known that anything untoward had 
taken place. But to wake up and find herself in bed 
with the stern-visaged Hodge sitting beside her, 
made her aware that she had been the victim of an 
attack. And presently, as she well knew, Hodge 
would begin to recapitulate all the imprudent things 
she had done in the last few days, so as to bring the 
blame of it home to her. 

She had never asked to have her malady labeled. 
She showed little curiositv about it. Mrs. Ponsford 
belonged to the generation that did not discuss dis- 
ease, but treated it like a dark secret to be hidden if 
possible, or, if not, to be disguised by some non- 
malignant name. In the family Janet’s malady 
was always spoken of as, “Poor Janet’s heart at- 
tacks; Poor Janet’s fainting fits.” Always Poor 
Janet. Mrs. Giles Ponsford never called her any- 
thing else. 

Janet was the only one of her eight children that 
did no justice to her mother’s ebullient physique, 
and to that hardy up-bringing which had been the 
Dean’s ideal for the production of a sound mind in 
a sound body. All the other sons and daughters 
were, without exception, sound and normal men and 
women. The six elder ones had grown up strong 
and healthy, had married and given hostages to 
fortune. There was always a touch of contempt in 
Mrs. Ponsford’s attitude towards this sickly young- 
est daughter of hers. 

She looked at Janet to-night and wondered why 
her eyes were so bright and why she had more color 
than usual in her cheeks. Her hair was so closely 
combed back from her forehead that its reddish 
tinge was scarcely visible. She never made the best 
of herself. Poor Janet — she had never looked 
young, and to-night, despite the shining eyes and 


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flushed cheeks, she looked quite an “old maid.” 
The attacks had aged her. She was just the same 
age as Sara Ponsford, and she looked quite ten years 
older. But, then, of course Sara “made up.” Mrs. 
Ponsford would never have permitted Janet to em- 
ploy such fictitious aids to beauty as that! 

Mrs. Ponsford would certainly have been sur- 
prised and annoyed had she been remotely aware 
of Lorimer’s interest — so swiftly awakened in 
Janet. She was indeed the one person present who 
profoundly interested him and intrigued his curi- 
osity. John, he flattered himself, he knew by heart, 
the kind of man who bends his neck to the stern per- 
fect yoke of the Catholic Church with the joyful sur- 
render of the early martyrs. Mrs. Ponsford was of 
a type less familiar to him, but she exhibited all those 
traits which he could readily categorize as “early- 
Victorian.” Wielding in youth a complete author- 
ity over her large family — one never saw such fam- 
ilies now — she had traveled easily to a contented 
self-sufficient old age, still ruling this pathetically 
prematurely-aged daughter of hers. That was why 
perhaps Janet reminded one of an elderly child, 
with less liberty and aplomb than the average mod- 
ern child of ten. She was a survivor of an uncom- 
fortable era of parental authority. Poor Janet . . . 
His thoughts, from a widely different angle, had 
reached the same culminating point as Mrs. Pons- 
ford’s, now. Only his mental “Poor Janet” held 
nothing of scorn, but a deep compassion that he 
would have felt for any other creature at once so 
crushed and so helpless. 

Dinner was ended. John stood up, crossed him- 
self, and rapidly uttered the words of a Latin grace. 
Lorimer crossed himself, too, with a graceful ges- 
ture and szid Amen, Janet, unconsciously imitative, 
had for a second lifted her hand to her forehead. 
But she dropped it suddenly. She had caught her 


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mother’s eye, mutely but sternly forbidding anything 
of the kind. It was all very well for John and this 
Papist friend of his, but she would have no nonsense 
with Janet, the eyes seemed to say. 

She rose and moved majestically to the door, 
which Lorimer, intercepting John, had flung open 
for her. As he stood there, he let his gaze fall full 
upon Janet’s face. She smiled faintly as she 
passed him. Her mother had gone on ahead; she 
could permit herself this indulgence of friendliness. 
And then Johnny had begged her to make Lorimer 
feel at home. It was difficult, she was so nervous 
and tongue-tied too, in the presence of her mother. 
She didn’t feel at home herself — she was only a 
frightened cheated child, with the nebulous menace 
of an “attack” if she exerted or excited herself in 
any way. 

She could hear her mother’s voice say sternly as it 
had done after her last attack: 

“If you’d only obeyed me and not gone out into 
the garden in the rain last Tuesday, this wouldn’t 
have happened !” 

The attacks surely were bad enough, without hav- 
ing to endure also the blame for having, by some 
petty act of independence, induced them. 


CHAPTER XII 

L orimer delicately lifted a cigarette from the 
sumptuous silver box which John had pushed 
towards him, and lit it. John put the decanter of 
port wine in front of him, as if to remind him to 
drink first and smoke afterwards. But Lorimer 
took no notice except to shake his head slightly. 
He had drunk nothing but water during dinner, and 


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very little of that. A curious and not quite consis- 
tent characteristic lav in his almost austere abste- 
miousness in the matter of alcohol. 

He leaned back in his chair, as if waiting for John 
to speak. But John continued to crack and peel 
walnuts meticulously, sipping sometimes at his glass 
of port. Lorimer said at last : 

“What’s the matter with your sister, John?” 

“Heart,” said John laconically. 

“Heart? She doesn’t look like a person suffering 
from heart.” 

“She has fainting fits, you know. That’s why she 
has to live very quietly. Any excitement . . . This 
place suits her exactlv. • . • There’s never anything 
to excite her. . . .” 

“Oh, I see,” said Denis. 

He went on smoking. So she was in prison, this 
woman. She wasn’t young or beautiful or at all 
clever, or he might have risked the danger and shown 
her at least how unfair, how even cruel it was. And 
then the Ponsfords were almost wealthy people ; the 
Dean had left each one of his eight children about 
six hundred a year, in most cases a little more. He 
remembered that John had told him that, one day 
when he was trying to persuade Denis to accept some 
further help from him. But Janet — getting on for 
forty — a mature spinsterish forty — so he consider- 
ed her — and he a man of twenty-nine ! It would be 
wrong and a little dangerous to display his interest 
in her at all openly. It Was thus he examined the 
situation, for his recent experiences had taught him 
caution. He wasn’t going to run the risk of for- 
feiting John Ponsford’s friendship. It was some- 
thing too precious from every point of view. He 
was the one person to whom he could turn in those 
hours of stress and need which were becoming so 
appallingly frequent in his life. 

And already, though he would scarcely admit it 


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himself, he was a little afraid of Mrs. Ponsford’s 
disconcertingly clear gaze. It was so much more 
penetrating than dear simple old Johnny’s . . . 

The warmth of the room, the excellent meal he 
had just eaten, filled Lorimer with a sense of well- 
being that was delicious. Of late he had so often 
been both hungry and cold, and had sought shelter 
in those cheap places of refuge which are abominable 
to a man of proud and fastidious spirit. He would 
have preferred the open fields, and the star-strewn 
sky above his head. But he was afraid of the cold, 
the damp of an English night. Thinking of this, 
he envied John with a deep and passionate envy be- 
cause he had this home, this comfortable refuge, 
always waiting for him. A place where he had only 
to push open the front door and enter, sure of his 
welcome. And even to find a sister like Janet there 
to greet him, was all part of the alluring old-fash- 
ioned picture. 

“Do you intend to convert your sister?” he in- 
quired suddenly. 

Johnny paused over his walnuts and looked up 
with a smile. “I’m afraid there’s no chance of 
that — in my mother’s lifetime.” 

“But your mother was always very charming to 
you, wasn’t she?” 

“Oh, I’m different,” said John. “You see, Janet’s 
the youngest daughter and she’s never been away 
from home. I sometimes think my mother forgets 
she isn’t a child.” 

“But she isn’t a child. She must be nearly forty.” 

“Thirty-five,” said John. He always found it 
difficult to believe that she was older than he was. 

Thirty-five . . . and no sign of youth left. It 
was pitiful. And behind those wistful blue eyes 
Lorimer had discerned a soul that suffered. 

“She’d be much happier if she were a Catholic,” 
he said. 


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“She’s very happy. She’s devoted to my mother. 
And she’s used to having to take care of her health. 
These attacks came on when she was quite a little 
girl — about nine or ten years old.” 

“She would be even more resigned if she had a 
strong supernatural motive,” observed Lorimer. 
“And it might even deepen her devotion to your 
mother. I’m all for women being Catholics.” 

As he spoke, he thought of the part played by 
Father Antonio in inducing Camilla to submit to the 
banishment of Ilda. 

It was surely the moment to speak, thought John. 
Yet his courage failed him a little. He said only: 

“Will you serve my Mass to-morrow, Denis?” 

“What time?” 

“Seven o’clock. We breakfast at eight.” 

Lorimer made a faint grimace. He had hoped 
to lie in bed “till all hours” on the morrow. 

“All right,” he answered. 

“My mother likes us to be punctual,” explained 
John. 

“And Miss Ponsford — will she come to Mass, 
too?” 

“Oh, no — I’m certain she’s never been to Mass in 
her life. There was no Catholic church at Haw- 
ford, where we lived in my father’s lifetime. And 
the nearest one to this is seven miles away. Janet 
never goes anywhere alone . . . it wouldn’t be safe.” 

“I suppose not,” said Lorimer. 

“I shouldn’t like to make any sort of breach be- 
tween her and my mother,” continued John, almost 
as if he feared that Lorimer might step in where he 
himself feared to tread. “I’m not even sure that 
I’m going to talk to her about it. You see, Janet’s 
very fond of me — it would be quite easy to influence 
her.” 

His face wore a grave perplexed look. 

“Is she quite dependent on your mother?” asked 


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Denis. It was possible, he thought, that in view of 
her weak health the money might not be in her own 
hands. 

“Oh, no; she has her own portion, like the rest 
of us,” said John. “But she’s dependent in this 
way, because she’s so delicate — so unfitted to look 
after things for herself or to live alone even if she 
wanted to. But she isn’t modern — I doubt if such 
an idea as that has ever entered her head.” 

Denis felt less assured on that point. 

“And if it would make her happier to be a Cath- 
olic, you still wouldn’t risk the breach?” he ven- 
tured to say. 

John shook his head. “Not . . . not yet,” he 
said hesitatingly. “It’s an awfully difficult ques- 
tion.” He wondered a little at Lorimer’s persist- 
ency. dt struck him at once as slightly inconsistent 
in a man who no longer practised his religion faith- 
fully, yet there was something urgent about his tone 
which puzzled him. But, then, Lorimer nearly 
always puzzled him — puzzled him in every aspect 
of his many-faceted nature. 

There was his religious side, now unfortunately in 
abeyance. It had received a further shock from the 
treatment meted out to him at the Villa Ascarelli, 
and from that compulsory separation from the 
woman of his love and dreams. But, though qui- 
escent and repressed, his ardent religious sense was 
not one that could perish utterly. It was mystical, 
and he had received great graces. Such a man is not 
able to forget. Denis might turn away for a time, 
angry and rebellious in his refusal to serve and to 
submit, but at least he had not lost his faith. His 
attitude was much more that of a child indignant 
with a tenderly indulgent father, who for his soul’s 
sake has refused him a perilous gift. ^ 

And then there was his worldly side — the side 
that inevitably attracted and even influenced the men 


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and women among whom he was thrown. People 
readily liked Lorimer. For a time they even liked 
him very much, even to the point of showing him un- 
usual kindness as Pio Ascarelli had done. But he 
had little of the true and deep sympathy for others, 
the profound unselfishness, the art of glad giving, 
that are so necessary for the preservation of friend- 
ship. And perhaps that was why people often tired 
of him. His egotism wounded. Under criticism 
or censure his temper proved itself prickly, brittle, 
even passionate. It is not possible for a man to live 
always in an atmosphere of sympathy, praise and ap- 
plause, yet this was precisely what he seemed tacitly 
to demand of his intimates. Thereafter followed 
disillusionment. John was aware of this less agree- 
able side of Lorimer’s nature, and it made him very 
careful in his personal dealings with him. But he 
was obsessed by the thought of winning back this 
straying sheep. He saw him as a soul that needed 
help, just as his body last night had needed rest and 
food. He yearned over him as a father might 
yearn over an obstinately prodigal son. 

“Pm sure your sister must be deeply attached to 
you,’’ said Denis thoughtfully. 

“Dear old Jane ! I’m sure she is,” said John with 
a smile. “She’s the best sister in the world.” 

“Is she like your other sisters?” 

“Oh, no, not in the least. Violet, the second one, 
was very prett}^ — she married when she was eight- 
een. Louisa and Margaret both married some years 
before my father’s death. I think it was a relief to 
him to know they were all happily settled. He was 
very fond of them — very proud of them. Espe- 
cially of Violet. Janet,” he paused and then 
added slow'ly, “Janet was afraid of him. He didn’t 
understand her.” 

He could never understand why there flashed into 
his mind then a scene from long years ago. The 


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trend of his conversation with Lorimer had stirred 
perhaps some long dormant memory. But he seemed 
to be standing again with Janet in the orchard at 
Hawford, and their father had come out to her in 
anger. He asked her a question — John did not re- 
member or perhaps had never heard what it was. She 
stood there white, trembling. He heard her say, 
Papa” . . . After that the details had al- 
ways been clearer whenever he reviewed the scene 
in which he had, he felt, shared something of Janet’s 
fear and suspense as to what was going to happen to 
her. Punishments rarely fell singly in that overflow- 
ing nursery; there was generally an accomplice to be 
discovered and dealt with. “That is a lie,” said 
the Dean firmly, “/or Hodge saw you.” He took 
Janet by the hand and dragged rather than led her 
towards the house. John followed. He could re- 
member that his emotions were complex; he was 
passionately sorry for Janet; he believed that she 
was incapable of lying, and he was angry with his 
father, which seemed to him the most terrible thing 
of all. Would he beat Janet? She had always 
been rather a frail little thing, prone to illness, and 
for this reason she had hitherto escaped chastise- 
ment in a house where the “rod,” as the Dean called 
it, was seldom spared. 

John saw all that followed. He ran a little fast- 
er, for he had a kind of immature desire to savfe 
Janet from their father’s wrath. He saw his mother 
come out on to the gravel path in front of the 
house, and he heard his father say: 

“Janet has told a lie. I am going to give her a 
lesson she will never forget.” 

Janet gave a little shriek and flung herself to- 
wards her mother. 

“No . . . no . . .” she cried. 

John’s heart was hot within him. He watched, 
and no one seemed to notice his presence. If they 


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had seen him, they would have sent him up to the 
nursery; he was only seven years old at the time. 
He was always sent upstairs when one of the elder 
boys had to be punished. 

He watched his mother. “She’ll never allow it,” 
he said to himself confidently. 

But Mrs. Ponsford had pushed Janet back to- 
wards her father. 

“I’m very sorry, Janet. But you must go with 
Papa.” 

So there was no help there. The Dean put out 
his hand again to seize the child. She gave a wild 
shriek and fell at his feet. John could always re- 
member her lying there, huddled up in her blue cot- 
ton dress on the gravel path. He could see her hair 
lying along it like a mat of reddish gold. After 
that, he had no very clear remembrance as to what 
had happened; all had been bustle and confusion and 
terror. Yes, sheer terror, on his own part, on his 
father’s, and on his mother’s. Janet’s scream rang 
in his head, haunted his dreams for days and weeks 
afterwards. It was the beginning of his tenderness 
towards her, of the feeling that she had to be taken 
care of, and that he must take care of her. . . . 
His mother had called him to her when the doctor 
had come and gone and Janet was lying in her bed in 
the night-nursery, where even Margaret, who slept 
with her, was not allowed to go. Mrs. Ponsford 
had told him that he had seen something which he 
had better not have seen, and she must rely upon him 
not to mention it to the other children. He mustn’t 
talk about it at all, even to Janet herself. He had 
promised, and had faithfully kept his promise. Per- 
haps they had thought him too young to remember 
it always. But he had not forgotten anything of it 
except one or two trivial details that did not affect 
the impression which the sinister little scene had 
made upon him. And ever since that day, Janet had 


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always seemed to be connected in his mind with some- 
thing essentially mysterious. She had been ill for 
quite a long time, and the doctor had come con- 
stantly to the house. John wondered what had 
been the matter with her, until one day some casual 
visitor had said to Mrs. Ponsford in his hearing: 

“Pm so sorry to hear your little girl’s been so ill. 
What was wrong with her?” 

Plis mother had replied, making use of those 
words — ^which had now become so familiar — for the 
first time in his hearing. 

“She’s had a bad heart attack. Only weakness — 
Sir Oswald Metcalfe says she’ll grow out of it.” 

When Janet had reappeared, she was very thin 
and pale, and her eyes had a strange expression. 
Once when he was much older, John had described 
them to himself as “haunted eyes.” She had never 
quite lost that look. John had always hoped that 
she would talk to him about the episode, since he was 
in honor bound not to mention the matter to her. 
But she did not speak of it, and he soon came to be- 
lieve that she had mercifully retained no remem- 
brance of it. It had been blotted out from her mind 
with all its confusion and terror. 

The attacks had been of fairly frequent occurrence 
ever since. Janet had not grown out of the ten- 
dency to fall down in a sudden faint, but she never 
seemed to remember what had happened, when she 
returned to consciousness. They represented to 
her perhaps periods of oblivion wherein she un- 
consciously suffered, as people suffer and moan when 
enduring an operation under an anesthetic. Suffer- 
ing imperfectly apprehended, but setting its seal 
upon her and placing her, as it were, a little apart 
from other more fortunate women, cutting her off, 
too from the normal sources of happiness. . . . 

Lorimer’s voice struck across his thoughts as he 
sat there, the walnuts uneaten on his plate, recon- 


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structing the little scene from the obscurity of 
twenty-five years. 

“Afraid?” Denis repeated. “Why was she 
afraid of him?” 

“We were all rather afraid of him,” said John. 

“But this sister more than the rest of you?” 

“I think she was. She was naturally timid and 
nervous, you know. She was never very strong, 
even before she began to have these attacks — quite 
little things upset her.” 

He felt a little uncomfortable under this close 
searching questioning of Lorimer’s. It was as if 
he dimly suspected something of the truth. But 
that was, of course, impossible. 

It was so easy to answer, “Heart,” as his mother 
had been doing for twenty-five years, and leave it at 
that. But Lorimer was obviously dissatisfied with 
the answer, and something of his dissatisfaction 
seemed to communicate itself subtly to John. 

He felt that for some obscure reason his guest 
wished to hear more of Janet. And there was noth- 
ing to tell. Nothing but that old episode, tragic 
enough at the time, but now apparently happily for- 
gotten by both his mother and Janet, since neither 
of them ever alluded to it. No life was more placid, 
serene and calm than Janet’s was now. The only 
episodes that marked its eventless monotony were 
those mysteriously recurring attacks, following per- 
haps upon some secret and repressed emotion of joy, 
fear or sorrow. Of course, they always tried to 
discover the immediate cause of them. But invari- 
ably they _f ell back baffled; there was so seldom any 
recognizable cause, though Hodge would always 
endeavor to lay her finger upon some trifling im- 
prudence. 

In the library — a room which was always used in 
preference to the drawing-room in winter, on ac- 
count of its superior warmth — they found Mrs. Pons- 


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125 


ford alone and knitting with imperturbable assid- 
uity. She looked up at the two men as they came in, 
and her glance seemed to measure them. This 
stranger, Denis Lorimer, towered above John, who 
was well above middle height. She thought that if 
he had lifted his hand he could quite easily have 
touched the low-beamed ceiling. A graceful figure, 
long, slender, loosely made. A curious face, 
though — so ran her thoughts — with that dark hair, 
those brilliant dark eves, those aquiline features. 
. . . She wondered whv he had come, why John 
had brought him to the Grange. But, of course, he 
would go away in a few days. There was literally 
nothing for a young man to do at Wanswater in the 
winter. 

“Where’s Janet?” said John, looking around. 

“She was tired — I advised her to go to bed. She 
asked me to say good-night to you both for her.” 

The words slipped smoothly from her lips. They 
were indeed so commonplace that John was aston- 
ished at the slight sense of actual misgiving they pro- 
duced in him. Was it because he felt certain that 
Lorimer had not been at all convinced by them? 

John felt disappointed, too. He had wanted to 
talk to his sister, and at dinner she hadn’t looked 
tired. 

Lorimer drew a chair close to the fire and nearer 
to Mrs. Ponsford. 

“I hope my being here hadn’t anything to do with 
Miss Ponsford’s fatigue?” he said. 

“Oh, dear no! Why should it?” Mrs. Ponsford 
smiled complacently at the slightly egoistic sugges- 
tion. She must really find a future opportunity of 
showing this highly-unnecessa^ young man that his 
presence could not possibly affect Janet in any con- 
ceivable manner. But she only added: “Janet isn’t 
strong — we have to take great care of her.” 

She had been saying those precise words, or others 


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that closely resembled them, for so many years 
that she uttered them now with perfect conviction. 
But they carried no conviction to Lorimer, and in- 
deed only served to deepen his disquietude. He 
thought of a bird — a wild trapped bird — impris- 
oned in a cage. 

“Well, I hope she’ll be rested by to-morrow,” he 
said easily. 

John felt a renewal of anxiety. Lorimer had 
obviously been disappointed at not finding Janet 
there; it was as if a momentary shadow had clouded 
his face and then passed, leaving it hard and set. 

Mrs. Ponsford did not answer. She went on 
with her knitting, her lips moving as if she were 
counting. She had had a little quiet struggle with 
Janet to induce her to go up to bed. Janet had 
wanted to remain in the library because “it was 
Johnny’s first night at home.” With her white face, 
and eyes full of tears, she had pleaded like a 
child. . . . One had to treat her as one would a 
child; it was the only way. 

Mrs. Ponsford had been very kind and had dis- 
played nothing of the impatience she had very nat- 
urally felt. She had only said: “My dear, don’t be 
so childish and sentimental — it’s ridiculous at your 
age! You’ve had quite enough excitement for one 
day, and I don’t want to have you ill to-morrow. 
Besides, John has got his friend.” 

It was unlike Janet to be so unreasonable, and she 
had gone away quietly enough at these words. Yes, 
John had his friend; they wouldn’t miss her. Per- 
haps Mr Lorimer would hardly notice her absence. 
She repressed a sob as she went upstairs. Yes, she 
was foolish and childish. But it was their fault — 
her mother’s and Hodge’s — for treating her always 
as if she were indeed a child. 

Perhaps John suspected that there had been a little 
scene of the sort. He knew that Janet would not 


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have left him very willingly on this, his first evening 
at home. He had been present sometimes when he 
had wished his mother could have shown her a less 
strict attention. If the thought had not been dis- 
loyal to her, he would even have perhaps told him- 
self that the care of Janet’s health might quite im- 
aginably degenerate into a subtle form of tyranny. 
He had sometimes even felt passionately sorry for 
her, as he had done on that day so long ago in the or- 
chard at Hawford. There was cruelty in too much 
kindness, as there was cruelty in too much severity. 
One mustn’t deprive living things of all light and air 
and liberty. . . . 

Then a fierce desire came into his heart — that 
Janet should have that outlet which the Catholic 
Church bestows in her great wisdom upon her chil- 
dren. The Sacrament of Penance stands between 
them and repressed suffering. A child may take its 
griefs as well as its little sins thither and receive 
consolation and advice. He longed for her to have 
that wider freedom. Had it ever occurred to her 
to wish for it, too? . . . 

Mrs. Ponsford knitted until ten o’clock and then 
she laid aside the results of the day’s labor. She 
kissed John and gave her hand to Denis. Then 
she proceeded to the dining-room to read evening 
prayers to the assembled servants. It was a pity 
John did not see his way to attend that simple cere- 
mony, and of course Mr. Lorimer believed he had 
a like reason for absenting himself. 

The two men went into the study, and smoked 
and talked for another hour before they went up- 
stairs for the night. 

“Don’t forget, seven o’clock,” was John’s part- 
ing injunction to his guest. 

“Right-0,” said Lorimer. 

“Got all you want?” inquired John. 

“Yes, thanks.” 


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The fire was still burning brigjitly as he entered 
his room. 


CHAPTER XIII 

A utumn lingered late at Wanswater, as if 
loath to give place to the long wet weather. 
Mild southerly airs came over the sea and hills, and 
stole across the valleys with their brown slumbering 
woods, their green pastures. 

Janet was desperately fond of flowers, of grow- 
ing things. Her one supreme interest was the gar- 
den. She loved coaxing unwilling growths to bud 
and blossom, tenderly as if they had been children. 
Only yesterday she had discovered some creamy 
rosebuds adorning an almost leafless bush ; she had 
brought them indoors and placed them in John’s 
austere and chilly room. She was permitted to gar- 
den because a doctor had once said it would benefit 
her health bv taking: her out in the open air and giv- 
ing her also a wholesome interest in life. It was 
her one pleasure when John was absent. 

Mrs. Ponsford used to say in reply to inquiries: 
“Janet? Oh, she’s grubbing in the garden.” 
Lorimer found her in the garden when he strolled 
out soon after breakfast on the following morning. 
He watched her a little before he made his presence 
known to her. She was so diligent, so absorbed, so 
deeply concentrated, that he hesitated to interrupt 
her. This silent enigmatic woman with the wist- 
ful eyes of a baffled child ! . . . He longed to draw 
her out, principally because her personality intrigued 
him. She was so unlike dear old John! In one 
sense you could read John like a book. 

Beyond the figure of Janet bending over her rock- 
garden, the lake spread like a great sheet of color- 


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less light. The sunshine was soft rather than bril- 
liant, it seemed to touch the water to silver rather 
than to gold. The whole world seemed bathed in 
that fragile illumination. The light wind touched 
the brown dried reeds that grew in the shallows of 
Wanswater, eliciting from them a kind of creaking 
protest as they bent stiffly before it. From the gar- 
den of the Grange, there were few houses visible. 
Just a glimpse of Wanside village with the sharp 
spire of the modern church showing above the trees. 
Mountains and woods^ — the jagged peaks of the 
Eastern Pikes — that vast sheet of water embosomed 
in the hills. . . . The lifelessness of it all! . . . 

He came down the little path and approached 
Janet. 

“Good-morning, Miss Ponsford. I hope you’re 
rested?” 

“Oh, yes; quite, thank you,” she said, and she 
straightened herself, lifting her face to his. In her 
hand she held a trowel and some brown-looking 
stalks. “I’m going to plant these. Pamela — my 
niece — sent them down yesterday. They’ll grow, 
she wrote, in a sheltered rock-garden in a mild 
climate. Next summer they’re to be wonderful 
blue stars!” Her eyes shone a little. Her faith 
in the future blossoming of those unpromising brown 
stalks was obviously complete. 

“John made me get up at half past six to serve 
his Mass at seven,” he said, looking away from her 
across the lake. “Never was such a tyrant. I hate 
getting up on dark winter mornings.” He smiled 
as he spoke ; his teeth were white and even. 

“It was very good of you to do it,” she said, 
“but people can’t help doing, things for John. . . . 
He’s so glad to be able to do things for his friends 
-—I think that’s the reason.” 

She trimmed the earth round a newly-raked oasis 
formed by a shallow cup in the rock. To do this 


130 AVERAGE CABINS 

she had to turn her head a little away from Lor- 
imer. 

“And for his enemies,” subjoined Denis. 

“Enemies?” She lifted her head sharply and 
the color raced into her cheeks. “He hasn’t got 
any I” 

“I can believe vou there. Still, even the saints 
have had enemies, you know. Goodness and un- 
selfishness can arouse bitter envy.” 

“Can they?” 

“Ask John.” 

Janet stooped and cut off some dried and withered 
leaves with a pair of scissors. She did it almost 
tenderly, as if half afraid of inflicting pain. 

“You didn’t come to Mass?” said Lorimer. 

He had what has been called le don fatal de 
familiarite. He never stood on the threshold if he 
could help it, but loved to penetrate intimately into 
the lives of those among whom he was thrown. 
It was for this reason that men and women so soon 
ceased to regard him as a stranger — that is to 
say, those who were immediately attracted by him. 
He seemed to touch the hearts of things and people. 

“No,” said Janet. She laid the scissors in her 
basket. He was afraid that, now her task was 
finished, she would make some excuse to return to 
the house. And he liked talking to her. 

“Didn’t you care to? It must be rather won- 
derful having a brother who is a priest.” 

“Yes — it’s wonderful,” she agreed. “But I’ve 
never been to Mass. Mamma wouldn’t like it.” 
She made the last admission quite simply. 

“And you allow that to prevent you?” said Lor- 
imer. He looked at her curiously, but there was 
more compassion than contempt in his gaze. 

“I can’t go against Mamma,” said Janet with 
decision. “And I don’t believe John would wish 
me to.” She paused. “We mustn’t discuss it. 


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131 

But I’ve longed to hear John say Mass ever since 
he became a priest.” She stopped abruptly, and 
her eyes filled with tears. 

“Dear Miss Ponsford, forgive me. I’ve been 
very tactless. But, believe me, I didn’t understand 
the position.” 

Janet took up her basket. “Didn’t John tell 
you?” 

“Oh, you know, he never talks much about his 
own people. I knew he had a mother and sister at 
Wanswater, and that’s about all.” 

Janet moved towards the house. She was sorry 
she had made the little revelation to this complete 
stranger. Lorimer walked by her side, his hands 
in the pockets of his shabby great-coat. Only once 
did she break silence as she climbed the path, and 
then he guessed that it was an effort to her to speak. 

“Please don’t think I’m wanting in sympathy for 
John. I do see that he had to do what he has 
done. If I could show him practical sympathy by 
going to Mass I would. . . .” 

“I’m perfectly certain you would. I never meant 
to suggest for a moment that you’d be found want- 
ing!” 

They entered the house in silence . . . 

She had not said much, it is true, but he had 
learned something nevertheless. And he had 
created that intimate atmosphere which made people 
— especially women — eager to confide in him. His 
clumsy approach was followed by a delicate apolo- 
getic withdrawal. And Janet had responded to 
both; she had been very sensitive under his hand. 

Dull, middle-aged woman that she was, there was 
something about her that attracted him. The 
dominant passion in her life was her love for John, 
yet other loyalties prevented her from showing him 
the complete sympathy she would have wished to 
show. How she had flushed up at that word 


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“enemies” ! There had been something indignant 
about her swift refutation. He liked her all the 
better for that. She had something of John’s stead- 
fast qualities, without his iron will, his single- 
hearted determination. Lorimer, encountering that 
will in opposition to his own, had sometimes felt 
wounded by the impact. But this woman was all 
yielding softness. Very soon he would win her 
friendship, her confidence. He wanted to know 
all that there was to know about her. There 
had been something very touching about her 
when she spoke of the blue stars that were 
to come forth from those brown stalks next 
summer! . . . He wanted to pierce that slight 
atmosphere of mystery that surrounded her almost 
impalpably. Was she really ill, or only nervous? 
She was in prison here. He wondered that John 
should accept the situation so calmly. Or perhaps 
he had never really envisaged it — had become ac- 
customed to things that were crystallized by long 
years of unconscious habit. 

The first days at Wanswater Grange passed 
quietly, uneventfully, and Lorimer saw little more 
of Janet. Wet weather kept her from “grubbing 
in the garden.” They met only at meals or in 
the library afterwards, with Mrs. Ponsford or John 
always present. In the afternoon, even on wet 
days, she generally drove with her mother in a 
closed carriage. The equipage, carriage, coach- 
man, and horse, were all of such antiquated pattern 
that he began to feel that he must be living in the 
last century. It is true that motor-charabancs 
dashed along the road at regular intervals towards 
the village of Wanside, and onward to the more im- 
portant towns that lay along and beyond the lake, 
but they did not approach the Grange, and to see or 
hear them pass on their ruthless way only elicited 
an astonished, “What next, I wonder?” from Mrs. 


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133 


Ponsford. She regretted them, just as she regretted 
the hordes of tourists, English and American, that 
filled the hotels and boarding-houses in the neigh- 
borhood to such repletion during the summer 
months. Some people suffering under the heavy 
taxation brought about by the War had sold their 
properties along the lake-side, and the old country 
houses had been transformed into smart hotels, 
“vulgarizing the place,” as the old lady sometimes 
observed complacently from her chimney corner. 
She was always shocked when one of her sons or 
daughters-in-law preferred to travel from Kenstone 
in the charabanc instead of journeying the whole 
distance in the brougham. 

Still believing that Mr. Lorimer’s stay would only 
last a few days, she forbore to criticize him to her 
son. She was not of those who took an immediate 
fancy to Denis. She secretly disliked something 
that she considered un-English in his aspect and 
dress. The way he wore his hair, for instance — 
brushed back from his brow with just a hint of a 
wave in it. And his voice — it was too soft. She 
endured him because he was there, because he was 
John’s friend, and because he would probably quite 
soon find himself very much bored with all they 
were able to offer him. Besides, she really couldn’t 
have him hanging about Janet in the garden! . . . 

Those very things about him which were rather 
repellant to Mrs. Ponsford were just the very quali- 
ties that often drew people swiftly, as on a wave 
of sympathy, to Denis. Something that had drawn 
such opposite types of men as old Lord Farewether 
and Pio Ascarelli. Often it was felt that to cease 
to be friends with Lorimer, argued some intellectual 
or spiritual deficiency in the character of those who 
drew away from further intimacy. Denis was ac- 
customed to such defalcations but, fortunately for 
him, they had never been accomplished under such 


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disastrous circumstances as at Villa Ascarelli. And 
he could generally achieve some fresh new entranc- 
ing friendship to console him for the sudden cold- 
ness or hostility of those who had learned to know 
him better, and who had turned abruptly away as 
from something dangerous, even sinister. 

John Ponsford had never thus turned away. It 
is true that they had never been in any sense on 
terms of close mutual friendship. Normally, a 
priest in his busy work for souls has little leisure 
for absorbing intimacies. But Lorimer always felt 
that John’s regard for him had never changed, even 
though he was pretty well aware of all the events 
that had preceded his abrupt departure from Villa 
Ascarelli, excepting, of course, he had never been 
told of the revelations made by Angus Ferringham. 

Lorimer acquired two strong impressions in the 
days that followed his arrival at the Grange. One 
was that Mrs. Ponsford did not like him, which 
was certainly correct; and the other was that she 
was keeping Janet close to her, under her eye, so to 
speak, for a reason not unconnected with himself. 
This knowledge at once flattered and ruffled him. 
It put him on his mettle. And it increased, inci- 
dentally, the interest that Janet had awakened in 
his mind. He determined to try and circumvent 
Mrs. Ponsford. 

Intrigues and situations often sprang up in Lor- 
imer’s path. He was wont to discern mysteries in 
the most commonplace households, was always ready 
to suspect cruelty, coercion, tragedy, even where 
these did not remotely exist. It was enough for 
him to see an old lady living with her elderly daugh- 
ter in a remote house in a lonely spot of the Lake 
District, and to be told that the daughter suffered 
from heart attacks — his suspicions were immediately 
aroused. Such a simple explanation would never 
have sufficed to satisfy him. He must needs try 


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135 

to drag away the veils, and interrogate the suppos- 
ititious yictirn. And, as if she had become aware 
of this intention, Mrs;. Ponsford quietly denied him 
all opportunity of talking to Janet alone. 

At night Wanswater seemed to Lorimer to be 
the veritable home of tragedy and mystery. He 
felt as if it must be haunted by some fierce and re- 
vengeful Spirit of Place. The black waters of the 
lake on those moonless starless nights only revealed 
themselves by the light of some rare passing vessel, 
some lamp shining from a house that stood close 
enough to the water’s edge to fling a faint rosy 
reflection upon it. And at twilight on these strange 
wild autumn evenings while the blue dusk lingered in 
these northern fastnesses — how dark and somber 
the forest looked, garmenting the banks of Wans- 
water and flowing over the hills ! . . . Leaning out 
of his window, he could hear the melancholy cry of 
the water-fowl, whose homes were in the lake, or 
the flap of a startled heron sailing majestically 
across the skv, uttering its eerie cry as it did so. . . . 

Nor did the house, with its mid-Victorian note 
of comfort and security, escape that general dis- 
quieting hint of tragedy, especially, Lorimer thought, 
on those nights when the mist came up from Wans- 
water, enveloping the whole landscape with its chilly 
embrace, coiling, clinging about it. He hated a suf- 
focating white mist; it took him back to that scene 
of horror in the Ascarelli woods — a scene that was 
even yet never long absent from his mind. Then 
there were the storms that beat down with tragic 
violence from the fells, hiding the peaks with baf- 
fling cloud. The nights when the wind howled 
about the house like a restless spirit. Small won- 
der, he reflected, that the geniuses of Lakeland, 
Coleridge and his son and de Quincey, had drowned 
those sights and sounds in copious draughts of 
opium or alcohol ! . . . 


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136 

Nevertheless, Lorimer stayed on and dreaded the 
day when John should propose departure. He had 
no place to go to, no money to take him any- 
whither. He had sunk down upon the comfort of 
the Grange, and though it seemed to him in moments 
of depression to be more and more the home of 
tragedy, he clung to it as a refuge from the deso- 
late freedom of the world that lay outside its gates. 


CHAPTER XIV 

L orimer rose punctually every morning and 
served John’s Mass. The attic had now been 
transformed into a chapel. Some of the furniture 
had come from Kenstone, and some from London, 
and everything was very simple and yet beautiful 
of its kind. John had brought with him some ex- 
quisite old vestments from Rome — delicate fragile 
things, too worn for any but the gentlest usage — 
and these were carefully stored away in an old 
chest. He was his own sacristan, and kept every- 
thing spotlessly clean. But it was Janet who filled 
the brass vases with flowers and put them each day 
in his bedroom in readiness. 

She did not go up to the attic ; she was forbidden 
to climb so many stairs. 

John had been at the Grange for rather more 
than a week when one morning, soon after seven, 
when he had just begun Mass, the door of the 
room opened and Janet Ponsford entered very 
quietly. There were two prie-dieu chairs set apart 
in one corner, and she knelt down upon one of these. 

^ John was saying the Confiteor, and if he noticed 
his sister’s entrance he gave no sign of having done 
so. But Lorimer looked round from where he was 
kneeling beside John’s upright figure, and smiled at 


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her with a bright look of encouragement. Janet 
did not return the smile. She was very pale, paler 
than ever under the black scarf she had twisted 
negligently about her head. It must have been a 
great effort to her to come, Lorimer thought. He 
could hear her panting a little as she knelt down. 

Her eyes were raised and fixed upon her brother. 
She watched him as one hypnotized, listening to the 
incomprehensible Latin words which he uttered with 
such ease and rapidity, noting too his movements 
and gestures. She watched the graceful movements 
of Lorimer, who seemed to imbue his part with a 
dramatic touch. 

She did not know that he was never so much the 
born and bred Catholic as when he was serving 
Mass. Every response, every action, all the Latin 
words, had been familiar to him from childhood. 
Here he was on sure ground, accustomed, recol- 
lected. 

Sometimes Janet turned her head a little towards 
the door as if she half feared some one might come 
in and take her away. 

*^Orate^ fratres . . said John, turning towards 
her and seeing her for the first time. He repressed 
a sense of astonishment, urgent, distracting. Why 
had she come ? How long had she been there ? 

*^SanctuSy sanctus, sanctiis ...” 

Lorimer rang a little bell sharply. 

Janet watched. She knew very little about Mass, 
but some sure instinct told her that a very solemn 
moment was approaching. She had read something 
long ago, somewhere . . . The bell rang again as 
if to command her to kneel down and bow her 
head. She glanced up and saw John lifting his arms 
high above his head, and in his hands he held 
Something, round, white, shining. The bell rang 
three times. ... 

A cry rang through the room. To Lorimer there 


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was a terrible note in that cry, as if it had been 
wrung from some spiritual rather than from any 
physical torture. He dropped the bell just as he 
was going to ring it again and rising ran towards 
Janet. Before he could reach her, she had fallen 
with a low thud upon the floor. He gathered her 
in his arms; her head fell back limply upon his 
shoulder; she was so white, so bloodless-looking 
that his first impression was that she was dead. Her 
eyes were open, and gazed with a fixed ghastly in- 
tensity. Her lips were not quite closed, but her 
teeth were set edge to edge. He opened the door 
and carried her down the stairs. Janet was not 
heavy, but the stairs were steep and narrow, and it 
was no easy task for a practically one-armed man. 

Father John Ponsford went on with his Mass. 
He tried to exclude all anxious thoughts from his 
mind. 

Lorimer reached the landing, and wondered 
whither he should now take Janet. She had given 
no sign of life. He wished he knew where her 
room was — where even her mother’s room was. But 
before he had found time to form any plan, a door 
opened and a capless harsh-featured woman wear- 
ing black approached him. 

“Miss Janet!” she exclaimed, and he felt that 
there was anger as well as dismay in her voice; 
“why, where did you find her, sir? I left her asleep 
in bed not half an hour ago. She’s never called 
till the half hour.” 

“Never mind where I found her. Tell me where 
I’m to take her. I can’t hold her much longer — 
I can’t use my left arm.” He spoke with a kind 
of abrupt violence. 

The woman led the way down the passage and 
turning the corner descended three steps. 

“Mind the steps, sir,” she said, and threw open 
a door to the right. “This is her room, sir. You’d 


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139 

better put her flat on the bed and I’ll attend to her. 
I know exactly what to do.” 

He laid Janet down on the bed as gently as he 
could. He was arranging the pillows under her 
head when the woman quietly removed them. 

“Her head must be kept low.” 

She was competent, he believed, but perfectly 
callous and heartless. For himself, the episode had 
shaken his nerve. Janet still lay there as one dead, 
with the face of one who had died in an ecstasy of 
bliss. The excitement of independent action, the 
effort of climbing the steep stairs at such an early 
hour, had no doubt conduced to bring on one of 
her mysterious attacks. That cry of hers . . . 

“I can manage quite well, sir. You can leave 
her to me.” The woman’s voice was disagreeably 
peremptory. He glanced curiously at the deter- 
mined, thin-lipped face. Here was another person 
of the drama, an able auxiliary, always at hand to 
second Mrs. Ponsford’s vigilance when advancing 
years made her prefer to shift the task of “watch- 
ing Janet” to some one else. 

“I could help you to bring her round,” said Denis; 
“I ... I know something of medicine — I was 
in a hospital for a good many months.” 

“I’ve been here since Miss Janet was five. You 
can leave her to me. She’ll come round in a minute, 
though I shall have to give her something first. 
She’d better not see you there when she comes to, 
sir, — it might frighten her.” 

Although she was civil, he understood that she de- 
sired to dismiss him. But he stood his ground. 
He wanted desperately to be there when she emerged 
from that strange unconsciousness in which it almost 
seemed to him that the soul had departed from her 
body. 

“Frighten her?” he said, with contempt. “What 
should there be about me to frighten her?” 


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“A strange face, sir — one she isn’t used to.” The 
voice was still respectful. But Lorimer was think- 
ing: 

‘*If she wakes up while I’m here, I shall learn 
something ...” 

He lingered. Suddenly the woman turned to him. 

“I’m very sorry, sir, to have to speak to you like 
this, but if you won’t go, I must fetch Mrs. Pons- 
ford. My orders are very strict.” 

She closed her mouth with something of the 
action of a steel trap. Lorimer went reluctantly 
to the door. He must needs bow to Mrs. Pons- 
ford’s authority; indeed it would have been danger- 
ous for him to rebel, imperiling his own position. 
He went back to the attic. John was kneeling be- 
fore the Altar, saying the final prayers. 

Cor Jesu Sacrattssimum . . . Miserere nobis, . . . 

Lorimer repeated. Miserere nobis. 

He helped John to unvest. “How is she?” he 
asked anxiously. 

“She was still unconscious when I left her. I 
carried her to her room and she’s with a fierce-look- 
ing woman now who told me to go away. I wanted 
to help — I felt I might be of use.” 

“A fierce-looking woman? Oh, I suppose you 
mean Hodge ! She is devoted to Janet — she’s been 
here for thirty years.” 

Lorimer’s heart sank. John too was blind, blind, 
blind. . . . He accepted existing conditions simply 
and unquestioningly. Did he never think of those 
two women side by side, one so frail and suffering, 
the other so harsh and hard and domineering? 

“I’ll just run down and see her before I make 
my thanksgiving,” said John. He went out of the 
room, leaving Lorimer alone. 

Breakfast was less punctual than usual that morn- 
ing. The household was affected by Janet’s sud- 
den illness, and Mrs. Ponsford came into the dining- 


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141 

room, to find Denis alone. She greeted him, and 
he was astonished to find that her face was perfectly 
calm and unperturbed. She poured out his coffee 
as usual, and glanced at her letters and the morning 
paper as if nothing untoward had occurred. Lor- 
imer felt a secret exasperation. Was it possible that 
not one of them had discerned how close to death 
this woman had been? 

Mrs. Ponsford surprised him by saying suddenly: 

“John tells me that you kindly looked after my 
daughter this morning. I am very grateful to you. 
Of course, she oughtn’t to have attempted those 
stairs !” 

Denis only said: “I could have been of more 
use if it hadn’t been for this wretched arm of 
mine!” 

He noticed that there was a slightly emphasized 
pink flush on Mrs. Ponsford’s cheek. 

“’It was very disobedient and imprudent of her 
to go,” she said; “and I’m very sorry you should 
have been bothered with her. ^ She knows quite 
well that if she does certain things it brings on a 
heart attack.” Her lips closed firmly on the words. 

Lorimer said: “Oh, it was no trouble -at all. 
I was most awfully sorry for her of course, and a 
little frightened, too. Your maid wouldn’t let me 
stay and help to bring her round. I might have 
been of ^ise — I was months in a hospital, you know. 
One learns a lot.” 

“Hodge was quite right,” said Mrs. Ponsford; 
“she knows that Janet mustn’t see strange faces 
when she comes round — it might alarm her.^’ 

“Oh, I don’t feel as strange as all that,” he 
assured her good-humoredly. “And I’ve seen some- 
thing of these cases in Paris — I was ages in a French 
hospital — they were interested in my case.” 

“I have no doubt they were.” She ignored the 
challenge in his dark eyes. “Valvular weakness is 


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very common, unfortunately. And when it is com- 
bined with anemia and a nervous temperament, one 
knows exactly what to expect in moments of sudden 
shock and strain.” 

John had come into the room during this speech 
and taken his seat at the table. 

Lorimer thought: “Dear old John believes all 
that about the valvular weakness. But she doesn’t. 
She knows it isn’t true.” 

“She’s quite conscious,” said John, looking to- 
wards his mother. “She knew me just now. Of 
course, I came away at once.” 

“You’d better leave her quite alone to-day, John. 
She must keep quietly in bed. Don’t make any fuss 
with her.” 

“We’re going into Kenstone this morning, Denis 
and I,” said John. “I’ve ordered Jenkins’ car at ten 
o’clock. We shan’t be back to lunch.” 

“You could have had the carriage,” said Mrs. 
Ponsford, who had never been able to dominate her 
fear of motor-cars. She could not bear to think 
that John should imperil his precious person in one. 

John smiled. “But we shall get there in no time. 
Can we bring anything back?” 

“Fish for dinner, if you like. Janet might have 
some. Oh, and some fruit, perhaps.” 

If it had been possible, Lorimer would gladly 
have foregone the expedition, which had been ar- 
ranged on the previous day. He wanted to stay and 
hear how Janet was going on. But John took it 
for granted that he would accompany him, and Mrs. 
Ponsford even seemed somewhat relieved at the 
thought of their absence. For, of course, the house- 
hold had been a little upset. Servants so easily lost 
their heads, and an under-housemaid who had caught 
a glimpse of the unconscious Janet had retired to 
the kitchen to have a violent fit of hysterics, saying 
that the sight had given her “quite a turn.” She 


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143 


had only been at the Grange a few weeks, and Mrs. 
Ponsford determined to give her notice that very 
day. She never had any sympathy with “nerves.” 

There was a knock at the door, and Hodge 
came into the room. 

“If you please, ma’am. Miss Janet’s asking for 
Father John.” 

It was obvious that she was delivering the mes- 
sage with great reluctance. 

“All right — I’m coming, Hodge !” 

John ran swiftly up the stairs to his sister’s room. 
She was lying in bed, her head raised a little now; 
she looked white and frail and slightly tearful. But 
that was her normal condition when she returned to 
consciousness. 

“Johnny darling!” She held out her thin arms 
and drew his face down to hers. Her tears flowed 
freely. 

“Hush, hush, Jane darling, you’ll make yourself 
worse,” he said. He soothed her as one soothes a 
little child, with caressing, deliberate tenderness. 
She was always so helpless after an attack, as if all 
vitality had gone out of her. 

“Was it a dream that I went up to the attic and 
heard you say Mass? Mr. Lorimer was there . . . 
helping you ... he rang the bell. Then . . .” 

She tried to catch the straying threads of mem- 
ory. Something very wonderful had happened, but 
the remembrance eluded her. So perhaps it had 
been only a dream after all, born of her great desire 
to hear her brother say Mass. “Was I there, 
Johnny? Hodge said it was a dream.” She low- 
ered her voice. 

. He felt a moment’s sharp exasperation at the 
thought that Hodge had deliberately deceived her. 
If that was part of the treatment, he considered 
that the treatment ought to be changed. Janet 
needed the truth, to strengthen her, to induce her 


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to further effort. She was too old to be treated like 
a little irresponsible child. 

“Yes, you were there, Jane. You fell down just 
at the moment of the Elevation. It’s a very solemn 
moment, you know. But I’ll explain that to you 
another time.” He stroked back her hair. 

“I’m glad I was really there,” she said. “I’ve 
wanted so to come ever since you have been back. 
You seemed so far away from me now and I thought 
it would bring you nearer. Even Mr. Lorimer 
seemed closer to you than we do.” 

“But, dear Jane, you mustn’t climb those stairs. 
The doctor’s forbidden all kinds of exertion and 
strain.” 

“Yes, but I didn’t think it would hurt me.” 

“And, then, you know mother wouldn’t approve.” 
He felt compelled to say it. The possibility of 
any breach between the mother and daughter al- 
ways made him dread the thought of Janet’s conver- 
sion. 

A faint shadow stained her brow. 

“Yes, — I knew I oughtn’t. But I felt I must.” 

She did not tell John that her action had been 
stimulated by something Denis Lorimer had said 
to her one day in the garden. 

John was interested because he realized that this 
time she was perfectly cognizant of all the events 
that had led up to the attack which had plunged 
her into such prolonged unconsciousness. This 
time she had gone with full knowledge right up to 
the very gate of that world of mysterious dark- 
ness. 

“Is Mamma angry with me?” she asked. 

“I’m sure she isn’t. Only distressed that you 
should be ill.” 

Janet stretched out her hand. “Tell me what 
happened,” she pleaded, “just what happened after 
you raised up the Sacred Host in your hands. I 


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145 

knew that Our Blessed Lord was there ... I felt 
He could see me . . 

“You screamed and fell,” answered John, “and 
Lorimer rushed to help you and carried you down- 
stairs. It wasn’t easy for him, with only one arm.” 

She flushed a little. “I’m so sorry ... it wac 
bad luck for him. I do give a lot of trouble, Johnny. 
And I’d like him not to have known.” 

“Oh, you mustn’t mind his knowing. He’s been 
so much in the hospital himself, he knows a lot 
about illness. He wanted to stay and help, but 
Hodge ordered him off I” 

“He must be very clever. Clever as well as 
kind.” 

“Well, if not very clever, at least very versatile,” 
said John, smiling. He had not a great deal of 
faith in his friend’s vaunted medical knowledge. 
Besides, he was aware of the superficiality that lay 
beneath that deceptive surface brilliancy. 

“You must thank him for all he did. Tell him 
I’m very grateful. Perhaps later in the day I shall 
be allowed to see him.” 

“I think you must keep very quiet to-day. And 
I’m going to take him into Kenstone.” 

“Shall you be gone all day?” she asked in a dis- 
appointed tone. She dreaded the long hours with 
Hodge’s vigilant figure sitting beside her. 

“I daresay we shall be back at tea-time.” 

“Then perhaps later in the evening you might 
bring him up. I’m sure I shall be on the sofa 
by tea-time.” 

“Well, we must see how you are, dear Jane.” 

She lay back contentedly, a faint smile parting her 
lips. “I promise to keep very quiet if you’ll only 
let me see him to thank him this evening.” 

John felt for a fleeting moment a passionate sense 
of dismay. That curious interest she had aroused 
in Lorimer — quite unconsciously, as John believed — 


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146 

seemed to have evoked some sort of response from 
Janet herself. The discovery filled John with acute 
alarm. It disclosed a situation fraught with peril 
for his sister’s peace of mind. She might even fall 
in love with Denis. And when he left the Grange, 
he would probably never think of her again, even as 
an interesting case. He had been hard hit over that 
affair in Rome; he still suffered from that frus- 
trated love-affair and from the faithlessness of 
Donna Camilla, and it was unlikely that he could 
have recovered sufficiently from that recent calamity 
to fall in love with a delicate woman five or six 
years older than himself, scarcely six months later. 
John tried to allay his own anxiety. But the fact 
remained that Lorimer had displayed a very special 
interest in Janet almost from the first moment of 
their meeting; he had taken up a curious attitude 
towards her malady, as if he believed it had never 
been accurately diagnosed. He was not satisfied 
with the usual explanations. Mrs. Ponsford had 
also told her son that “Lorimer had been hanging 
about Janet in the garden,” in a tone that plainly 
showed her own disapproval of such a proceeding. 
“// you^ll only let me see him to thank him this even- 
ing, . . .” The words had startled him from the 
tone of entreaty in which they had been uttered, and 
then he had never in all his life seen Janet look as 
she had looked then. Rejuvenated, transformed, 
subtly awakened, very nearly beautiful . . . He 
could not but believe that she had been obscurely 
sensible also of the Holv Presence in the chapel 
that morning. And it had pierced like a delicate 
shaft of light across that sudden dark storm that 
had flung her, a huddled unconscious heap, upon the 
floor of the little attic-chapel. . . . 

And she remembered everything up to the moment 
of unconsciousness. Not quite certain, perhaps, if 
it had been a dream or if it had actually hap- 


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pened . . . She could recall perfectly, seeing John’s 
hands uplifting the Host for all to see and adore. 
No deception of memory there. The incident had 
impressed itself sharply upon her memory; she would 
never forget it now. Her very first initiation into 
the Mysteries of the Catholic religion! . . . And 
into that episode the figure of Denis Lorimer would 
always be interwoven, forming part of the brilliant 
design upon the tapestry of her mind. 

“I’m sure he’ll come if mother will let him,” said 
John, with a touch of reluctance. “She may think 
it too exciting for you to see visitors.” He fell 
back upon the traditional formula, honored by the 
invariable usage of thirty years. 

“I’m not a child, Johnny. If Mamma would only 
remember that! And if Hodge could only forget 
I was five when she first came !” 

So she chafed beneath that kindly and wise but 
ceaseless vigilance. Even a soft bandage will in 
time chafe the skin. . . . 

“Mother knows best, dear,” he said very gently. 

“Yes, yes,” said Janet, already repentant of her 
momentary disloyalty, her lapse into futile rebel- 
lion. She was afraid too, of the close intimacy 
between her mother and John. But the next mo- 
ment she put out her hand with a gesture of re- 
newed confidence. 

“If I were your penitent, Johnny, I could tell you 
things without any fear of your repeating what I’d 
said.” 

“Yes, if you spoke under the seal of the confes- 
sional, a priest may never reveal a single word. 
Not even if it were to save his own life.” 

“I should like to be your penitent,” she said. 

“Priests never confess their own relations if they 
can help it. Of course, sometimes it’s unavoidable. 
But even without my being your confessor, Janet, you 
can tell me things in perfect confidence. I should 


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treat them exactly as if they were told me in the 
confessional.” 

“Then may I tell you something that you’ll never 
repeat?” 

John’s heart sank a little. Yet he remembered 
Lorimer’s words. 

“Yes, dear Jane,” he said. 

“I want to be a Catholic, Johnny. You’ll say 
that I don’t know enough. But I have the faith, 
and surely that’s the main thing. When you were 
saying Mass I believed ... I remember now, I tried 
to kneel down and bow my head at the Elevation. 
Perhaps it was the excitement of being present for 
the first time. I felt that Our Lord was there and 
calling to me — that He wanted me although ! wasn’t 
strong and clever like other people. And then I 
don’t remember anv more. ...” 

So, after all, it had been the spiritual significance 
of the Mass that had so profoundly affected her. 

“Do you think I ever could be one? Must one 
be very clever?” 

“No — no. The Church is for all, for the most 
illiterate as well as for the most learned. Our 
Lord didn’t choose the wise ones of the world to be 
his first disciples. Only a few unlearned fisher- 
men . . . But it’s Mother Tm thinking of, Jane dear 
— she’s getting old — it would upset her very 
much. . . .” 

He felt almost as if she must have discovered 
those secret thoughts of his concerning her which 
had so perturbed his mind ever since Lorimer had 
spoken to him on the subject that first night at the 
Grange. Yes, it was Denis who had awakened in 
him the knowledge that Janet might need assistance 
that was more definitely spiritual than the care she 
was now receiving. Denis with his quick questions, 
his rapid deductions, had caused the smooth waters 
of the Grange to flow agitatedly. 


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“1 must think it over/’ he said; “I’m sure you’d 
be much happier if you were a Catholic, Janet dear.” 
He bent down and kissed her. “Now I must be 
going, or I shall keep Lorimer waiting.” 

He went to Kenstone with Lorimer that day in a 
silent and perplexed mood. All the time his 
thoughts hovered ceaselessly about Janet and the 
episode of the morning. Lorimer only once alluded 
to it. 

“You say your sister never remembers anything 
that happens just before one of her attacks. Didn’t 
she remember about coming to Mass this morn- 
ing?” 

Had no ray of Divine comfort escaped to console 
that suffering and repressed heart? 

John Ponsford’s face was rather rigid. 

“As a matter of fact, she did,” he answered, but 
something in his manner seemed to warn Lorimer 
that he preferred not to discuss the subject. 


CHAPTER XV 

M rs. PONSFORD permitted herself to ad- 
minister a mild rebuke, having realized, from 
something Janet said, that she had at least a partial 
recollection of the morning’s happenings. For of 
course it mustn’t happen again. No deviation from 
the excellent, accustomed, time-honored path! . . . 
Janet must remember what the doctor had said about 
not attempting to climb many stairs. And so early 
in the morning, before she had had even a cup 
of tea! ... It was a great pity it had happened 
when Mr. Lorimer was there, and it would teach 
Janet a lesson. Such an awkward thing, too, for 
her to have to be carried down to her room by this 


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young man who was such a stranger to them 
all. Mrs. Ponsford’s remonstrance was carefully 
fashioned, but every word went home. It was none 
the less forcible because so quietly delivered. She 
saw a little flush of shame creep into her daughter’s 
face. She knew then that there would be no repeti- 
tion of the offence. She bent down and kissed her. 

“Now don’t think any more about it, my dear. 
I’m sure you’re very sorry that it happened.” 
She had been accustomed to use those words to her 
children ever since they could remember. 

Janet was afraid of her mother. She remem- 
bered the day when she had flung herself at her 
feet, and Mrs. Ponsford had failed her. Ever since 
that day she had had an eerie sense of fear when 
she thought of her mother. Some one who would 
stand by, calmly and approvingly, and watch her 
being hurt and do nothing to save her. In that 
dim life of hers, spent always upon the borderland 
of a very active subconsciousness, fear with Janet 
ruled supreme. And it was this very fact that 
Lorimer had so swiftly detected. It had estab- 
lished a kind of intimacy between them — the inti- 
macy that need have no recourse to words. Yes, 
Lorimer, coming thus as a stranger among them, 
had not failed to lay unerring hands upon the key 
of the situation. He had wondered if John knew, 
and, sounding him, had discovered that he didn’t. 
John’s was a limpid nature; he loved his sister, but 
he had grown accustomed to the “treatment”; had 
not so far, perhaps, examined the case from the 
Catholic standpoint to discover how far that treat- 
ment combined a spiritual with a physical training. 
Lorimer wondered if Janet was aware of the re- 
pressed sensation that governed her, and came to 
the conclusion that subconsciously she was aware of 
it. But the storms that had passed over her had 
robbed her mind of something of its crystal clearness ; 


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151 

it was a stream that had had clouding things flung 
upon it from outside, as a mountain torrent is forced 
to bear on its surface the refuse of a great storm. 
And lastly Denis had wondered if Mrs. Ponsford 
had really envisaged the situation and simply declined 
to interfere with existing conditions that in her own 
opinion had borne such happy results. And grad- 
ually he became perfectly assured that this was the 
case. She might of course have been self-deceived, 
though Lorimer was too angry with her to give her 
the benefit of the doubt. But self-deception played 
a leading part in the life of many women of her gen- 
eration. They refused — and perhaps wisely, for 
their own peace of mind — to look truth in the face. 
They preferred to keep it in its proper place at the 
bottom of the well, and to imbue themselves with 
all sorts of specious and plausible reasons for the 
necessity of such banishment. You did not call a 
spade a spade, but you heaped all kinds of pretty 
sentimental things about it to hide its crude outline, 
and sometimes you were even able to persuade your- 
self that it wasn’t there. No spade at all! . . . 

How much did she really believe about the val- 
vular weakness of Janet’s heart? She could always 
quote a doctor — perhaps the doctor had known the 
kind of woman he was dealing with. Or perhaps 
that diagnosis dated from many years back, when 
psychology was less studied in reference to disease. 

Sometimes Lorimer raged at his own helpless- 
ness. He could get no nearer the truth, for since 
that morning in the chapel he had seen very little 
indeed of Janet. She had apparently recovered; 
after a couple of days spent entirely in her room, 
she appeared one day at luncheon. Beyond looking 
a little white and exhausted, she was not much the 
worse for the experience. But he noticed that she 
seldom addressed him except when it was absolutely 
necessary, and she avoided meeting his gaze. It was 


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as if she felt ashamed that he should have seen her 
in that moment of supreme bodily weakness. 

Mrs. Ponsford said to her one day at luncheon: 

“I think it’s too unsettled for you to drive with 
me this afternoon, so I shall take Hodge. I should 
like you to lie down on the sofa in your room till 
tea-time. You must find a book — not a novel. A 
little serious reading, my dear.” 

“Very well. Mamma,” acquiesced Janet. 

“I’d rather you didn’t go in the garden. It’s very 
damp after all the rain in the night.” 

Lorimer was saying to himself: “How on earth 
does she bear it ? And it can’t be necessary. Why, 
she wants freedom!” He did not trust himself 
then to look at her. 

It was a day of smiles and tears at Wanswater. 
An April moment at the end of November. The 
brown and purple bloom that lay like a sober-colored 
mist upon the woods was illuminated at intervals 
by flat bars of palest gold. The lake lay like a 
great white and silver shield under that changeful 
sky, and the rush of wind that ruffled and wrinkled 
its surface from time to time had a fresh spring-like 
quality. Janet, leaning her head out of the open 
window of her room, could almost have believed 
that Spring was on her way and that winter was 
over — the long dead winter which was so very long 
at Wanswater. The grass that spread along the 
shore of the lake was brightly green; amid the pre- 
vailing dun and white and gray it gave a sharp em- 
phatic note of color. And in the water it made a 
reflection that was like a thin trickle of emerald. 

The wheels of Mrs. Ponsford’s carriage had died 
away in the distance. After all, the day had turned 
out brilliantly fine, with that fresh vigorous quality 
in the air which always stimulated Janet. She longed 
to go down to the rock-garden and see how things 
were getting on there. She had not been in the gar- 


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153 

den since that attack in the chapel. But it was ab- 
surd to keep her indoors to-day . . . 

John had motored over to the nearest mission, a 
distance of some seven miles across the hills. Lor- 
imer was somewhere in the house. Janet wondered 
what he was doing. It must be very dull for him, 
all alone like that, with Johnny away for the whole 
afternoon. Perhaps that was why she had to keep 
up in her room, so that she shouldn’t see Lorimer 
and talk to him. . . . 

She looked down upon the garden and suddenly 
perceived Lorimer going towards the lake. He 
walked with a quick springy step as if he were just 
gping to break into a run. His hair was uncovered 
and looked as black as a raven’s wing. His stiff 
left arm hung down helplessly. 

He did not look back at the house, but descended 
the steps into the lower garden, and presently re- 
appeared in sight on a little narrow path close to 
the edge of Wanswater, where a small wooden land- 
ing stage had been erected. 

Janet could see his tall figure silhouetted against 
the lake. Then he moved slowly out of sight; a 
group of trees hid him. 

Lorimer’s feet trod heavily on the moist rich 
soil that clung in black patches to his boots. A dark 
heavy soil this of Wanswater, the things that grew 
in it were a little rank. ... 

He glanced back in the direction of the house, of 
which only some of the windows were visible above 
the group of trees. It had a solid comfortable and 
peaceful aspect. It seemed tacitly to promise plenty 
of good food, punctually and regularly distributed, 
hot water in abundance, comfortable beds and chairs. 
The very outside Ipok of it told you all that. But 
what it lacked was fresh air — pouring in streams 
and floods from the mountains and the fells, and the 
sea that lay beyond them. Fresh air penetrating 


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to the very corners, cold, stimulating but vigorously 
free! And he thought of Janet living her tragi- 
cally-enclosed life there from long year’s end to 
long year’s end. Almost as enclosed as a cloistered 
nun’s, but without the loving shaping discipline, 
the spiritual ideals, the overwhelming sense of “vo- 
cation,” to make the yoke easy and the burden 

He strolled along the lake-side in the direction of 
the village that lay a quarter of a mile away. He 
must buy some stamps, not many — he had so little 
money left. He wondered if John would be equal 
to another substantial check when they left Wans- 
water. If not, it would be difficult for him to make 
plans for the future. But he was getting stronger, 
the rest and good food had improved his condition. 
He had been pretty run down when he met John at 
Euston; couldn’t have got through a day’s work of 
the lightest kind then. . . . 

He was in sight of the village — ^Wanside, lying 
like a pale scar in the plain at the foot of Dunnrigg. 
It looked charming, with its scattered groups of 
houses, its busy market-place, its church spire pierc- 
ing the sky above a fine clump of elms. He was 
just going to take the path that led to the right across 
the fields, when he noticed some children playing 
close to the water’s edge. He stood still for a 
moment to watch them. Two of the boys were 
quarreling — he was not near enough to ascertain 
the cause of the squabble. There was a brief fight 
with fists, in which the smaller boy, though standing 
up heroically to his opponent, was rapidly worsted. 
A sudden push sent him back stumbling to the very 
edge of the bank, and then, uttering a shrill scream, 
he slipped over it into the water, just where it ran 
deep and black. Lorimer thought he should never 
forget the way in which the water received the little 
falling body, closing over it, concealing it, like a 


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155 


prey or a sacrifice, exactly as if the lake had indeed 
been the home of some fierce pagan deity that yearly 
demanded its sum of human toll. But the little 
body did not return to .the surface, as is the custom 
of drowning men, and Lorimer flung off his coat and 
leapt into the lake. 

The frightened horrified children on the bank saw 
Lorimer dive and disappear from sight. Then his 
dark head emerged from the surface before he 
plunged down once more into the black waters. 

Twice he came up without success, and crippled 
by his useless arm he had hardly the strength to make 
a third plunge into those ice-cold depths. But this 
time when he came to the surface he struck out for 
the bank, and as he stood up it was seen that he 
was clasping an inert little body to his breast. He 
clambered up the slippery bank with difficulty and 
laid the child upon the grass. The effort had re- 
quired all his strength, and as yet he did not know if 
he were holding a living or a dead boy in his grasp. 
Shivering and with teeth chattering, he sank down on 
his knees beside that lifeless-looking form. 

“Please, sir, I didn’t push him in. He slipped 
back,” said the culprit whimpering. 

Lorimer roused himself. 

“Don’t stand there lying to me — I saw you do it !” 
he said harshly. “Go to the village at once and 
fetch a doctor — ^bring back some blankets and 
brandy — if you don’t look sharp he may die. And 
it will all be paid for — tell them at the shops!” 

Two thoroughly scared children raced off in the 
direction of Wanside, relieved perhaps to escape 
from the scene of the disaster and to have active 
employment thrust upon them. 

Lorimer, left alone, knelt down and worked away 
at the little arms. He was terribly handicapped by 
his own useless arm, and he despaired of bringing 
back consciousness to that little lifeless body that 


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156 

only a few minutes ago had been fighting and quar- 
reling after the manner of rough and healthy boy- 
hood. He wiped the green clinging weeds from the 
mouth and face, loosened the clothing, pulled off 
the boots. It was no easy matter to accomplish all 
this single-handed, especially when he himself was 
half frozen by the sudden immersion. 

He heard a footstep coming along the path. For 
a second he turned his head and saw that Janet 
Ponsford was hurrying towards him. 

“Miss Ponsford I Thank God! I want help 

“Let me help — tell me what to do.” She was 
down on her knees by his side. 

“Just go on working his arms like that — ^you can 
manage better than I can.” 

She obeyed. “You’ve been in the lake? Why, 
you’re wet through!” 

“I had to fish this youngster out. That’s all 
right — only not so gently. Do it as roughly as you 
can. Work them well.” He rose to his feet and 
shook the drops of water from him with something 
of the action of a big dog. 

Janet was moving the child’s arms up and down, 
as rapidly and roughly as she could. She found 
them very heavy. It needed all her strength to lift 
those slender stark limbs. All the time she was 
thinking: “It’s no use — I know he’s dead. . . 

“That’s splendid. I’ll take a turn now. We must 
do what we can for the poor little chap. They’re 
bringing brandy.” 

“It’s Jimmy Nicholls, and he’s an only child,” 
she said, looking down at the little frozen face. 

Lorimer pushed her aside with a slight yet con- 
vincing gesture of authority. He worked away with 
his only serviceable arm with a rough energy that 
in her secret soul she considered a trifle brutal. 

“Take that other arm!” he commanded suddenly. 


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^S1 


“work It for all your worth. He’s coming round.” 

Janet obeyed, thrilling a little to the peremptory 
voice. She felt a quiver pass through the young 
frame ; the lips parted, the eyelids flickered. It was 
like a return to life, slow, exquisitely painful, perhaps 
a torturing ecstasy, just as if the soul were a little 
unwilling to remain in its earthly tenement, as if it 
stayed there reluctantly. 

Jimmy was wide-awake now ; he began to sob in 
piteous fashion. 

“What are you doing to me? What’s the mat- 
ter? Where am I?” He looked round, gazing 
vacantly at the two faces bending above him; his 
breath came in thick gasps. 

Janet turned very white as she watched him . . . 

“Get up off that damp grass. Miss Ponsford! 
And for goodness’ sake don’t faint or anything of 
that sort. I want your help.” 

Lorimer’s voice was rough and brutal ; he did not 
know why he obeyed a sudden impulse to speak in 
that way to Janet. Perhaps he had been afraid of 
the emotion, the unusual exertion for her; she 
had made such a tremendous effort to obey him, had 
worked so valiantly to restore Jimmy to conscious- 
ness. She rose to her feet, flinching as if he 
had struck her, but the rough domineering tone had 
scourged her to a new vitality. Her whole nature 
responded as if to a trumpet call. She stood there 
in an alert pose, ready to obey his least word or 
gesture. How splendid he was — ^how strong and 
powerful ! When she was able to control her voice 
she said: 

“You needn’t be afraid. I’m not going to faint.” 

He had raised Jimmy’s head a little, treating him 
now with a curious tenderness as if the boy had been 
actually dear to him. 

She had never seen that side of him before — the 
side that cared most passionately for little children. 


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158 

and for all helpless suffering things. And as she 
watched him, a warmth spread through her whole 
body, and she knew in that moment that she loved 
Lorimer. She longed to serve him. She wanted 
to obey him as a slave. She would not care if he 
were rough or cruel or even if he despised her, so 
only that she might serve him. . . . 

A few minutes later two men arrived from the 
village on bicycles, bringing blankets and brandy. 
Denis took the bottle and poured some of the fiery 
liquid into the boy’s mouth. 

“We’re going to take you home now,” he said 
smiling at him. 

“You’ll be as right as rain in a few minutes. 
Help me to undress him. Miss Ponsford. We must 
get him out of these wet things and wrap him up in 
the blankets.” 

But Janet was already unfastening buttons. Her 
fingers worked quickly — and she had always been 
called clumsv. . . . Soon the boy was wrapped in 
the blankets and was being borne away to the village 
in the arms of the two men. 

“The doctor’s out this afternoon,” they explained, 
“but his mother’s getting everything ready — ^we only 
told her that he’d fallen into the water and we were 
going to fetch him home. She sets such store by 
Jimmy — it would have frightened her to know he’d 
been nearly drowned.” 

“Oh, then I won’t come,” said Denis; “I’ll go back 
to the house and change. We’ll send down later to 
hear how he’s getting on. Good-bye, Jimmy.” He 
touched the boy’s cheek. “Next time you have a 
scrap keep away from the lake.” 

He and Janet walked back to the Grange together. 
Lorimer moved slowly and with difficulty, handi- 
capped by his dripping clothing, his water-logged 
boots. They did not speak to each other on the way. 


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159 


As they came up the path into the terraced garden, 
John’s voice accosted them. 

“My dear Denis — what on earth’s happened? 
You look as if you had been in Wanswater!” 

Lorimer was blue with cold; his teeth chat- 
tered. 

“One of those village urchins got shoved into the 
lake and was a bit stunned in the process. We’d 
hard work — Miss Ponsford and I — to bring him 
round.” 

“Is he all right?” asked John eagerly. “Which 
boy was it?” 

“Jimmy Nicholls,” said Janet. “And they’ve car- 
ried him home — he seemed nearly all right.” 

“Well, you’ll want attending to next, Denis! 
You’re simply soaking,” said John. 

“So would you be if you dived three times into 
Wanswater 1” 

“I’ll come up with you. Janet, you must go and 
tell them to bring hot-water-bottles and brandy. 

Janet hurried into the house. John and Lorimer 
went upstairs together. 

“I’d better have a hot bath to warm me up — I’m 
nearly frozen,” said Denis. Strong shivers shook 
his frame; there was a blue look about his mouth. 
John helped him to remove his wet boots. 

“Was Janet there all the time?” he asked. 

“No, she didn’t appear until after I’d got him out. 
That was the worst part — I couldn’t find him at all 
at first. He’d gone down like a log, poor little chap. 
Game little chap, too. Of course I’m not much use 
with only one hand, but Miss Ponsford arrived on 
the scene and I showed her what to do.” 

“I wonder it didn’t make her feel bad,” said John, 
a little anxiously. 

“Oh, I had her well under control,” said Lorimer. 
“I spoke to her pretty roughly and told her not to 


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faint or anything of that sort. She obeyed. . . 
His black eyes were full of light. 

“Fm glad she didn’t give you any trouble.” 

“Trouble? She was cool as a cucumber. She 
helped me — I couldn’t }i^ve got him round with- 
out the help of her two hands.” 

“Fm so awfully glad she was of use.” 

“It was jolly lucky for Jimmy that she did turn 
up.” Lorimer’s mouth was oddly compressed. 

Hodge knocked at the door and came in carrying 
hot-bottles and some brandy. 

“The bath’s ready, sir,” she said grimly. 

She had been astonished to recdve orders — and 
such orders — from Miss Janet. Lorimer felt that 
her manner towards him was obscurely hostile. So 
she was going to fight him, was she? Never 
mind — Janet was eternally on his side. He knew 
he had made her his slave, and that she showed him 
at least gratitude. He was certainly the first person 
who had ever treated her as if she were a responsible 
woman, capable, competent. . . . 


CHAPTER XVI 

I T WAS John who recommended him to go to bed 
for a bit, and get thoroughly warm between hot 
blankets, and Lorimer did not contest the advice. 
He was by this time thoroughly exhausted, and 
knew that his nervous system had received a sharp 
shock. But the hot bath and bottles and blankets 
failed to bring back the slightest semblance of 
warmth to his frozen body. His teeth chattered and 
his shivering became so violent that the mahog’any 
bed shook under him. John left the room for a 


AVERAGE CABINS i6i 

few minutes, and, without informing Lorimer, dis- 
patched a messenger for the doctor. 

He did not wish to alarm Janet. Probably she 
too was feeling the reaction after so much un- 
accustomed excitement. But he felt relieved that at 
a crucial moment she had not been found wanting. 
She had helped Lorimer; she had been of use. 
She had been put, in a sense, to the test. 

Janet was in her room. It was not yet tea-time, 
but the short winter afternoon had darkened into 
night, and the lamp was lit on the table near her 
couch. She was reviewing the little sequence of 
events from the time when she had first perceived 
Lorimer walking down to the lake. For a little 
while she had resisted the impulse to go down and 
follow him. But there were things she wished to 
say to him. She had never had an opportunity of 
thanking him for the assistance he had rendered to 
her the other morning. She had been too timid to 
do so when her mother was present. Now would 
be a golden opportunity. Hodge was out driving 
with Mrs. Ponsford; John had gone over to Moss- 
mere to visit a brother-priest. She could come back 
easily before the carriage returned, and no one would 
be any the wiser. And she was tired of staying in- 
doors on such a fine sunny afternoon . . . 

She was a little afraid that Hodge might hear of 
it. Hodge reported everything faithfully to Mrs. 
Ponsford. But presently there rose within her a 
feeling more urgent than fear. She must see Denis 
Lorimer and speak to him. She might never have 
such another opportunity. If she found that she 
was in the way — that he didn’t want her — she could 
always make some excuse for returning to the house. 

She put on a hat and coat and went downstairs 
and into the garden. The air was delicious, almost 
heady with an invigorating quality, like wine. It 
brought the color to her cheeks. She hurried along 


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the lake and arrived just in time to see Lorimer 
kneeling on the grass, hiding over the prostrate 
form of little Jimmy Nicholls. She wondered if 
he had looked at her thus when she had lain uncon- 
scious that morning in the attic — ^with that curious 
solicitude and tenderness. As she came nearer she 
saw fhat both of them, the man and the child were 
both wet through. The water was dripping from 
Lorimer’s clothes and hair, and the drops poured 
down his face in little streams. 

Then had come that wonderful half hour in which 
she had been by his side, close to him, intimately 
associated with him in the tremendous task of re- 
storing consciousness to the insensible, apparently 
lifeless form of Jimmy Nicholls. And she became 
aware during that time not only of Lorimer’s near- 
ness to her, but of something of his great power, his 
personal magnetism. His words had been neither 
kind nor courteous, yet she knew that no other incen- 
tive could have kept her alert, self-forgetful, com- 
petent, could have calmed the terrific excitement 
that was swaying her. She would far rather have 
died at his feet than failed him then. . . . 

Yes, she had loved him at that moment. If he 
had chanced to look at her, he might have read it in 
her eyes. He had given her courage, yes, and confi- 
dence. He had not sent her away abruptly, lest she 
should faint. She had not the smallest hope, of 
course, that he would ever love her in return. Like 
so many women who have never been loved, Janet 
believed herself to be unlovable and perhaps even 
repellent. But she loved him and would have 
served him to the death. 

She rose from the sofa. She did not want to rest ; 
her mind was full of a strange activity that drove her 
into action. She went along the passage to Lor- 
imer’s room and knocked at the door. It was 
opened by John. He was astonished to see her. 


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He thought he had never seen her look so young 
and alive before. A faint misgiving seized him, and 
he closed the door quietly and came out to her in the 
passage. 

“How is he?” 

“Well, I can’t get him warm. I’ve sent for the 
doctor. I’ve done simply everything I could think 
of.” 


“May I go in and see him for a moment, Johnny?” 

“No, dear — I don’t think you’d better. I want 
him to sleep if he can, and I’m sure he ought to keep 
quiet.” 

“I’ve got something I want to say to him.” 

Her persistence surprised him and deepened his 
misgivings. 

“You shall say it to-morrow, dear Jane.” His 
voice was kind but very firm. 

Janet’s face was very set. But she was accus- 
tomed to obey, and to persist in asking for anything 
that had been refused, was always dubbed as un- 
reasonable. She did not want John to think her un- 
reasonable; she dreaded to lose his good opinion. 
But now for the first time something angry and rebel- 
lious rose within her heart. She wanted to beat 
her hands against the hard wall of that eternal vig- 
ilance, the vigilance of her mother and Hodge. 
They watched her goings-out and comings-in, and 
abruptly checked any sign of initiative or indepen- 
dence on her part. They treated her, in short, as 
if she were still twelve years old. They loved her 
and they did it for her good — oh, she had been as- 
sured of that a thousand times I — and of course she 
tried not to show them how much they hurt her. 
But no pain had ever felt like this pain. They were 
going to keep her away from Lorimer . . . she 
would only see him alone by stealing out secretly and 
following him as she had done to-day. They 
guessed perhaps . . . 


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Suddenly she turned to John and said passion- 
ately : 

“Only for a moment, please, Johnny darling! I 
want to see him so I Before Mamma sends for me 
to go down to tea. I’ll never ask again . . 

Her eyes were a little wild, and there was some- 
thing both urgent and supplicating in her entreaty. 

“Jane, dear, don’t talk like that,” he implored. 
“Surely you can be calm and reasonable and wait 
till to-morrow.” He laid his hand on hers. 

She took her hand away. “You don’t know what 
it’s like to be watched and watched always, and 
hindered and prevented!” 

John slipped his arm about her. He was horri- 
fied and something of remorse seized him. He, lov- 
ing her tenderly, had never suspected that she was 
cherishing a secret mutiny against the “treatment” 
of twenty-five years. The sight of her rebellion 
alarmed him. She had thrown off what seemed to 
be an almost lifelong disguise. And it was Lorimer 
who had wrought this wonder in her . . . had 
forced that prisoned soul to' escape. 

Lorimer . . . 

He put his hand on the door and opened it. 

“Just for a moment then, Jane. For his sake 
you mustn’t make him talk much. He’s had a shock 
and he isn’t over fit.” 

She went swiftly, quietly, into the room and 
approached Denis’s bedside. John stood in the 
doorway watching her, expecting every moment to 
hear the doctor’s footstep upon the stairs. He felt 
anxious — he didn’t like the look of Lorimer. And 
now there was Janet . . . 

Lorimer’s black hair was visible, making an inky 
patch against the pillows. John could see that he 
raised his head a little as Janet drew near. He put 
out his hand and she took it for a moment in hers. 
Only the low murmur of their voices reached him; 


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165 

he could not hear anything that they said. The 
room was a large one, and Lorimer’s bed was in the 
corner of it farthest from the door. 

Janet, flushed and breathless with excitement, 
said: 

“I wanted to come and see how you were*. Do 
you want anything? Can I get you anything?” 

“How dear of you to come!” said Lorimer, “but 
I don’t want anything — John’s seen to all that. 
He’s nursed me before — when I got my arm hurt, 
you know, and I was laid up in Florence.” 

“I mustn’t stay. John says you oughtn’t to talk.” 

Lorimer raised sleepy black eyes. The lamplight 
showed him Janet with flushed face and shining eyes. 
If she would only learn to do her really pretty hair 
better, and to dress decently ! . . . She had fallen in 
love with him, as perhaps he had intended all along 
that she should. Only it had happened rather too 
quickly; if discovered, it might abruptly terminate 
his stay at Wanswater. Drowsily he remembered 
that she had six hundred a year of her own. Not 
much in these days for two people, but better — a 
great deal better — than nothing at all! . . . 

“Come back and see me again,” he said. “You 
did most awfully well to-day. Was I very rude to 
you ? I didn’t mean to be. 'I’m always rude when 
I’m frightened, and I thought that* poor little chap 
would never come round. I said ‘Hail Mary’s’ all 
the time — I don’t think I ever said so many before. 
And then you came ...” 

Try as he would, he could not keep something of 
tenderness from his voice. 

Janet was speechless. 

“When you come back — perhaps to-morrow morn- 
ing when I’m sure to feel more intelligent- — I hope 
you’ll bring a book and read to me. I like being 
read to.” 

“Yes, I’ll come,” said Janet. She was wondering 


1 66 AVERAGE CABINS 

if she would have the courage to make a second 
struggle. 

Lorimer put out his hand again. 

“Good-night. Bless you!” he said with a smile. 

Janet went out of the room. 

“I wasn’t too long, was I, Johnny? I don’t think 
it’s hurt him,” she said. 

All her thoughts were aglow; she seemed to be 
treading on air. Her eyes were full of a strange 
light. 

“No — no — I’m sure you’ve done him good,” 
said John. 

On the stairs Janet passed Dr. Stokes, a compara- 
tively young man, who had lately come to practise 
in Wanside after the death of old Dr. Taylor. 
He gave Janet a quick scrutinizing glance, for he 
had heard a good deal about her malady, and per- 
haps he wondered a little why he had never been 
called in to prescribe for her. He was clever, pos- 
sessing a thoroughly modern equipment, and from 
his experiences in the War he was well versed in 
nervous cases. 

They bowed to each other, and Janet went down 
to tea. Mrs. Ponsford did not allude to the disaster 
of the afternoon, so Janet rightly concluded she had 
so far not heard that she, Janet, had been mixed up 
in it. She would be angry, of course, when she 
heard that Janet had disobeyed her and gone out, 
especially after she had told her exactly how she 
wished her to spend the afternoon*. But this even- 
ing Janet felt a strange new courage. 

Later in the evening when Dr. Stokes’s remedies 
had produced a semblance of warmth in Lorimer’s 
half-frozen body, John said to Denis: 

“I’m going down for a second to see Janet.” 

Denis put down a cup of half-finished tea. 

“She’s none the worse, I hope,” he said. 


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167 

“No. But these attacks always come on rather 
suddenly.” 

He felt vaguely anxious about her. She had 
looked so changed this evening, almost what the 
villagers would call “fey.” 

“She must suffer a great deal,” Denis observed. 

“Suffer? No, I don’t think so. She remembers 
nothing, you see, as a general rule. The other morn- 
ing was quite an exception. It’s her utter uncon- 
sciousness of what’s happened that saves her. 
Otherwise she’d live in perpetual fear of an attack 
— she’d be afraid to go out even in the garden alone. 
She’d learn to watch for the symptoms — to remem- 
ber what happened last time.” 

“And it has never occurred to you that she does 
remember — does dread?” said Lorimer. 

John paused. 

“I’m very intimate with my sister. I think she 
would have told me — if there had been anything of 
the kind.” 

“Fear has been known fo keep people silent about 
experiences of the sort, especially if she is not 
encouraged to speak of them. There’s such a 
danger, you know, about long-continued repres- 
sion — ” 

“Fear? But my dear Lorimer, whom on earth 
should she be afraid of?” 

Lorimer longed to cry out: “Your mother — 
Hodge — all of you — who are keeping her in prison ! 
Why, she isn’t free to speak!” 

But as he looked at John’s frankly perplexed 
face his heart sank. John’s love and confidence in 
his mother’s wisdom were obviously complete and un- 
shakable. 

“It’s always been such a comfort to us to feel 
that she didn’t suffer,” continued John Ponsford. 
“To a sensitive nature like hers the knowledge would 


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mean a degree of mental suffering terrible to con- 
template.” 

But even as he spoke, the remembrance of Janet’s 
passionate words that very evening, when she had 
pleaded for admittance to Denis’s room, came back 
to him with an almost sinister significance. What 
if she did repress — as Lorimer seemed to suggest 
— that fear and suffering of hers? 

Lorimer made an impatient movement. He had 
read all the signs of spiritual suffering in Janet 
Ponsford’s face. Something of those fierce experi- 
ences remained with her, even if only subconsciously; 
of that he was absolutely convinced. A violent 
nightmare, even if only imperfectly remembered, 
will remain unpleasantly in the background of the 
mind for many days afterwards. It may leave little 
trace beyond a haunting imperfectly-apprehended 
fear, a fugitive malaise. 

John was speaking again. 

“So I’m sure I needn’t ask you, Denis, to talk to 
her as little as possible on the subject. If she 
mentions it to you, turn her thoughts to something 
else. We have always adhered to this policy, and 
it’s according to the advice of a well-known spe- 
cialist.” 

Lorimer cleared his throat. The sense of return- 
ing warmth gave him a feeling of exquisite comfort. 
He turned lazily on his side and said: 

“But, my dear John — ^that’s the treatment for 
brainstorms, not for heart!” 

“Specialists have assured us that these attacks 
are due to heart,” said John. A quick flush had 
mounted to his forehead. He felt that this was no 
new supposition — Lorimer must have had it in his 
mind ever since his first meeting with Janet. But to 
hear it put thus into words, deliberately, brutally, 
gave him something of a shock. For lately, since 
his return to the Grange after a long absence, he 


AVERAGE CABINS 169 

had not been without a sense of anxiety concerning 
Janet. He seemed to be studying her from a new 
angle, from a Catholic standpoint, and in this ex- 
amination he could not but perceive that while her 
body was so carefully looked after, while she was 
fed and clothed and housed, watched lest she should 
suffer from fatigue or excitement, no one ever did 
anything for her starved soul. Did Lorimer see 
this, too? Lorimer was not a good Catholic, but he 
was perfectly aware of all that the Catholic religion 
could do both for body and soul. And his interest 
in Janet had obviously deepened since he had wit- 
nessed the acute physical collapse to which her mal- 
ady could reduce her. There was curiosity in his 
attitude towards her, and with it there was something 
of compassion, as if he believed that she was im- 
perfectly understood and inadequately treated. 
John knew that during the months spent in the 
hospital in France, Denis had applied himself to 
the study of those nervous cases with which he 
had been associated. Such studies had been of a 
morbid rather than of a wholesome and sane char- 
acter. He had watched men, with whom loss of 
memory seemed to have been complete, gradually 
brought back to a realization of their own identity 
and to a remembrance of past happenings. Some- 
times it had seemed to him that the process was 
cruel, almost like a kind of torture. He had al- 
ways been interested in those nervous diseases of 
the mind which can so fatally affect the body. 
Pathological psychology in all its various ramifica- 
tions had attracted him, as well as the more modern 
craze for “psycho-analysis.” He secretly believed 
that “possession” was imperfectly apprehended and 
inadequately studied by the doctors of the present 
day. Once Lorimer had had some idea of becoming 
a doctor, possibly a brain-specialist, himself; but 
he had renounced such ambition because, as he ex- 


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170 

pressed it, he could never remember the names of 
all those tiresome bones and arteries. 

“She ought to be a Catholic,” he murmured 
sleepily, for he felt that he had said enough — per- 
haps a little too much, judging by John’s gravely 
anxious face. “It would give her an outlet. And 
then the joys, John, of sacramental absolution . . 

John longed to cry: “Physician, heal thy- 
self! . . .” But the time was not ripe. The pride 
of Denis Lorimer would have to undergo many and 
many a scourging before he was brought to his 
knees in the Sacrament of Penance. 


CHAPTER XVII 

A fter tea that evening when John came down 
to report Lorimer’s progress to his mother, 
Janet stole upstairs to her room. She had a great 
longing to be quite alone for a little while. Her 
mother would not miss her ; she was talking to John ; 
She disapproved of his having sent for “this new 
man,” Dr. Stokes, whom she regarded as quite un- 
worthy to succeed old Dr. Taylor, who certainly 
for ten years past had had the proverbial one-foot- 
in-the-grave. Indeed he would have long ago re- 
linquished the task of physicking Wanside folk if it 
had not been for the War, when patriotically he had 
felt that by continuing his labors, he was setting free 
an able-bodied young man for service in France. 
He had died “in harness,” two months after the 
Armistice. 

Janet lit the two tall candles that stood one on 
each side of the massive mahogany looking-glass, and 
regarded herself attentively in the mirror. Candle- 
light is commonly held to be becoming, softening 
harsh outlines and dimming the ravages of Time. 


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171 


But to-night Janet saw herself under no flattering 
aspect. She saw the ill-done hair that long ago had 
lost its bright loveliness and showed here and there 
a white thread or two. Especially near the tem- 
ples . . . And there were lines, sharply cut, at the 
corners of her eyes and mouth. Little perpendicular 
lines between the rather undefined eyebrows. She 
had never been pretty, but surely she must once have 
possessed what is known as the beauty of youth, its 
rounded contours, its glossy locks, its smooth un- 
wrinkled skin. Violet, four or five years older than 
herself, was still often spoken of as the “beautiful 
Lady Bradney.” Since her widowhood a couple 
of years ago, she had had several offers of marriage. 
Pamela Ponsford had told Janet about it. At the 
Grange it would have been considered “bad form” 
to mention such a thing as that, and Mrs. Ponsford, 
hearing of the revelations most innocently made, had 
lectured her granddaughter on the evil habit of 
gossiping. “I wish she’d just leave Pam alone,” 
said Sara, when these details reached her ears. “If 
Violet was foolish enough to refuse old Chandler 
and his millions all the world ought to know of 
it.” 

Janet continued her examination, putting the 
thought of Violet from her mind. Lady Bradney 
belonged to a different sphere, where women were 
free, were beautiful, were beloved. She looked 
attentively at her dowdy old-fashioned dress of non- 
descript hue that made her skin look even more 
dingy, and accentuated the angularity of her figure, 
robbing it of the little grace it possessed. 

“Pm hideous — and old! . . . Of course he 
couldn’t love me!” she said in a whisper to that 
pathetic woman who confronted her in the mirror. 
“He’s so wonderful he could marry anybody. . . .” 
That pale unhappy image seemed to repeat and 
echo the words. 


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Then all of a sudden she bowed her head in her 
hands and wept. Those sobs she could no longer 
control, shook and rent her body. The years had 
gone by, and she had scarcely noticed their passing. 
She had not rebelled against the gray drab life 
that they had imposed upon her. She had accepted 
those existing conditions because of the weakness 
of her physical health. And she had not been 
actively unhappy in that twilight existence of hers 
until the coming of Lorimer. She could not remem- 
ber that she had wished for anything else, except 
in very wicked moments when she had prayed that 
Hodge might die or leave them forever. But now 
she wept passionately over those dead days that had 
passed, taking with them her youth, the pretti- 
ness she had once possessed, and leaving her with 
her pale worn face, her wistful eyes, her graying 
hair. She saw herself as Lorimer must surely see 
her, and she wept. Bitter, strangled sobs broke 
from her. Yes, he had praised her to-day, he had 
been — except for those few sharp words — extraor- 
dinarily kind. Despite his now intimate knowl- 
edge of her physical infirmity, he had treated her 
like a perfectly normal woman, inviting her help 
and appreciating its adequacy. For just those few 
minutes she had felt strong, capable, competent. 
How Hodge would have laughed at the idea of 
her being useful to any one ! Her feeble incom- 
petence was so often shamed by hearing Hodge say: 
“Here, Miss Janet — let me do that for you. Your 
fingers are all thumbs.” Yes, Hodge had been say- 
ing that to her for thirty years, and she had come to 
believe that she was abnormally useless, clumsy and 
awkward. . . . 

The scalding tears dripped through her fingers. 
Yes, there was something of anger in them, some- 
thing of rebellion, against those who had deliber- 
ately helped to destroy her youth. They had kept 


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173 


f ' - /ithout change, without 



The very mountains 


seemed to aid and abet them in that imprisonment 
of her. The Eastern Pikes with their jagged teeth, 
the great shoulder of Wansdale Raise, the lovely 
shape of Dunnrigg, colored green and gray and 
violet and tawny brown, that presided over Wans- 
dale, stern, protective, remote ... all these com- 
bined to shut out the world from her. If it had 
not been for John, she would have lived and died 
here without ever seeing Denis Lorimer. . . . 

The door opened and Hodge came into the room. 

“Mrs. Ponsford is asking for you, miss. She 
says will you go downstairs at once?” 

Janet turned a tear-stained slightly swollen face 
towards the maid. The candles cruelly illuminated 
it, showing all the ravages wrought by that tem- 
pestuous uncontrolled weeping. Hodge bestowed 
upon her a severe scrutiny. 

In Janet’s childhood Hodge had physically en- 
forced such a request as this one, had there been 
any symptom of delay or disobedience on the part 
of her victim. Even now, Janet could almost 
feel that firm bony hand clutching her thin shoulder 
or arm, while the iron voice said; “If there’s any 
nonsense. Miss Janet, I shall go and fetch your 
Mamma !” 

“Tell Mamma I can’t come down — I’m not feel- 
ing well.” 

She repressed a sob. 

“Shall I tell Mrs. Ponsford you would prefer 
her to come up?” inquired Hodge, patiently. 

“No . . . no !” said Janet. 

“She won’t like to hear you’ve been crying, 
miss. Let me wash vour face. Dear me, what a 
sight! You’re too old to be such a cry-baby. Miss 
Janet.” 

Too old? Yes, too old for anything . . . The 


174 


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tears flowed freely again. Even Hodge’s presence 
could not produce its usual sobering effect. 

“No — no — please leave me. I want to be alone. 
I can’t come down.” 

Hodge waited passively. She was certain that 
the mood would pass. Miss Janet hadn’t been quite 
“the thing” since that last attack — she and Mrs. 
Ponsford had both noticed it. 

“Tell Father John to come — I’ll see him,” said 
Janet in desperation. 

“Father John’s gone back to sit with Mr. Lorimer, 
miss. I must go downstairs — Mrs. Ponsford 
doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I’ll tell her that 
something’s upset you. But she doesn’t like to 
hear of your cryine. . . .” She moved towards the 
door. 

Janet yielded. “Tell Mamma I’ll come in 
a few minutes. Don’t say that I’ve been crying.” 

“Mrs. Ponsford will see that fast enough for her- 
self, miss,” said Hodge, in her prim censoring 
fashion. She retreated slowly, wondering what was 
the matter with Miss Janet. Why had she been 
crying? Lately, despite that last attack, she had 
seemed in better spirits than usual. What had 
happened to upset her? Was it this accident, so 
to speak, in which Mr. Lorimer had got a thorough 
soaking so that he had been obliged to go to bed, 
see the doctor, and have no end of fuss made about 
him? It wasn’t as if he’d been in any danger. A 
little cold water wouldn’t hurt the likes of him — 
so ran Hodge’s disdainful thoughts, for she had 
examined and inwardly condemned his scanty and in- 
adequate wardrobe. Not a single silk shirt — not 
a single pair of silk socks! ... So different from 
Mr. Stephen and all the other gentlemen who stayed 
at the Grange, sons or sons-in-law of Mrs. Pons- 
ford. She would like him to see Sir Cosmo Brad- 
ney’s wardrobe. Her Ladyship chose everything 


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175 


herself, and nothing but the best would satisfy her ! 
Hodge could hardly bring herself to think of the 
worn blue serge suit that Father John had sent down 
that afternoon to be dried in the hot cupboard, with 
instructions to Watson that it was to be well pressed 
when dry. Mended, if you please 1 . . . And badly 
mended, too, with cotton -of a different color. The 
lining torn in the armholes . . . The trousers frayed 
at the edges ... No tailor’s name in gilt lettering 
inside the coat. Nothing to tell you where it was 
made. And the boots . . . Hodge shrank from 
consideration of those worn* and patched boots. 
Yes, patched, and the laces broken and knotted. If 
she had liked him better, she would have put in new 
ones, but there was something odd about his face, 
and the way he spoke to Miss Jianet, that she didn’t 
hold with at all. He must be real poor, that man. 
An adventurer, picked up by Father John out of 
charity, as likely as not. The workhouse was the 
place for people like that, people who were poor 
and wouldn’t work. ... 

She returned to the library. Mrs. Ponsford 
looked up sharply, expecting to see Janet. 

“Why, where’s Miss Janet, Hodge?” she asked, 
with a very slight suggestion of irritability in her 
voice. 

“She’s coming in a few minutes, ma’arn. She 
isn’t quite ready. She seems a little upset this even- 
ing — she was crying when I went into her room.” 

“Crying!” repeated Mrs. Ponsford, in a voice that 
held something of both contempt and exasperation. 
“Why, what can possibly have upset her, do you 
think, Hodge?” 

“I’m afraid I’m not able to form an opinion, 
ma’am,” replied Hodge sententiously. 

“Now, Hodge, none of that, if you please! Tell 
me exactly what you think.” Mrs. Ponsford’s 
bright encouraging smile seemed rather to accen- 


176 AVERAGE CABINS 

tuate than diminish the note of authority in her 
clear voice. 

Few people could resist her when she smiled. 
Her smile lit up her whole face, her mouth, her eyes. 
When she had been young it had conquered both 
men and women, and she was perfectly aware of 
its undiminished power. With her, it was not al- 
ways, nor even very frequently, a sign of mirth or 
merriment; it seemed rather to be an emanation 
from that iron unbendable will of hers, to denote 
a consciousness of power and authority that was 
extremely pleasing to their owner. 

It made Hodge feel slightly uncomfortable, as 
if her own thoughts concerning Janet’s grief had 
been very foolish. And if Mrs. Ponsford were 
further to discern her reflections upon the subject of 
Mr. Lorimer, she would scarcely escape censure. 

She was never permitted, as some old servants are, 
to criticize the guests who came to the house. She 
was jealous of them if they were popular, and un- 
charitable if they were not. Mrs. Ponsford had 
long ago discovered this tendency to criticize 
and carp in her otherwise invaluable Abigail, and 
had checked it with some severity. She still had the 
upper hand of Hodge. 

“Most women of my age are slaves to their 
maids,” she used to say frankly, with that disarming 
brightness of hers. “And I don’t intend to be. 
I’ve an idea Hodge might prove rather a strenuous 
taskmaster!” 

An excellent quality, however, where Janet was 
concerned; it was good^ for Janet to feel the firm 
guiding hand of authority. 

think, if you please, ma’am, if you’ll allow me 
to say so, that Miss Janet’s upset about this — this 
accident to Mr. Lorimer.” 

“And what makes you think such a thing as that ?” 


AVERAGE CABINS 


177 


inquired Mrs. Ponsford; must have something 
to base your opinion on. Tell it to me.” 

“You see, ma’am, she was there just after it had 
happened. Found him kneeling on the grass try- 
ing to get Jimmy round.” 

“She was there?” repeated Mrs. Ponsford 
angrily. “How do you know she was? I told 
her to stay in her room this afternoon. How did 
she come to be there?” 

“I don’t know, ma’am. When the boy went on 
his bicycle to fetch Dr. Stokes, he heard a lot of 
gossip in the village. The children said Miss Pons- 
ford wasn’t there when Jimmy fell into the lake nor 
even when Mr. Lorimer jumped in and pulled him 
out. But when they came back with some brandy 
and blankets she was there. All the children know 
Miss Janet by sight, ma’am. I could hardly be- 
lieve it myself, but her shoes were wet and very 
muddy — I’ve taken them down to be dried.” 

The pink flush deepened in Mrs. Ponsford’s plump 
cheeks. 

“I never heard anything so disgraceful!” she 
said. “It seems I can’t turn my back for an hour 
without being disobeyed. Do you think Mr. Lor- 
imer had asked her to follow him in this way?” 
She could hardly believe that Janet had herself 
evolved a course that required so much cool initiative 
and even daring. But this young man had evidently 
encouraged her, laughing at her in his sleeve all 
the time, no doubt! . . . And now she was dis- 
covered crying in her room. Crying, if you 
please! . . . Mrs. Ponsford’s eyes gleamed like 
angry sapphires. 

“That I can’t possibly say, ma’am. But judging 
by many things,” (she thought hastily of the sad 
condition of his clothes) “I should say that more 
unlikely things have happened. He’s a very obsti- 


AVERAGE CABINS 


178 

nate pertinacious young man and it wasn’t easy to 

J et him to go away the other morning when Miss 
anet was just coming round after her attack.” 

Mrs. Ponsford wondered inconsequently where 
Hodge obtained her vocabulary. Pertinacious ? 
Well, the sooner he took his pertinacity off to some 
more promising and fruitful venue the better ! She 
wasn’t going to keep him here to put all sorts of 
ideas into Janet’s head. Janet would be imagining 
herself in love next. 

“Very well, Hodge. That will do. If Miss 
Janet doesn’t come down I’ll ring for you again.” 

Hadge withdrew. In the hall outside she en- 
countered Miss Ponsford. She was deathly pale, 
and her eyes were scarlet-rimmed; her hair was 
slightly disheveled; her head ached and burned. 

“She’ll catch it from her ma, if I’m not mistook,” 
murmured Hodge, as she repaired to the servants’ 
hall. 

The mother and daughter were alone together. 
Mrs. Ponsford controlled her anger with an effort. 
She looked at Janet and then said: 

“Why didn’t you tell me you went out this after- 
noon?” 

Janet was silent. 

“What made you go out, after I’d told you not 
to?” 

“It was such a lovely sunny afternoon,” said 
Janet. “I couldn’t bear to stay indoors.” 

“Did Mr. Lorimer invite you to accompany 
him?” pursued Mrs. Ponsford. 

It was really necessary to discover what was go- 
ing on in Janet’s mind. And it could only be done 
by questioning. Mrs. Ponsford had no thought of 
cruelty; she would have said that she wished to 
save Janet from herself. 

“Oh, no; he was surprised to see me. He said it 
was providential, my coming just then.” 


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179 


“Indeed?’’ said Mrs. Ponsford dryly. 

John must really get rid of this highly unneces- 
sary young man the moment he had recovered from 
the effects of his immersion. To-morrow perhaps, 
or the day after. . . . 

“You see, I helped him. With only one hand it 
was difficult for him to bring Jimmy round.” 

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of your competence. But 
will you tell me why you were there at all?” 

“I thought I should like to go in the garden.” 

“Yes, but this didn’t happen in the garden. It 
happened down near Stubb’s Cottages. What made 
you go there?” 

“I . . . I just went,” said Janet feebly. 

“Yes. But what made you think of it? Did 
you know that Mr. Lorimer had gone in just that 
direction ?” 

Janet hesitated. Then she said “Yes,” in a faint 
voice. 

“Now I wonder what made you follow him like 
that?” said Mrs. Ponsford. 

She fixed her blue eyes upon her daughter. Janet 
lowered her own before that bright and menacing 
scrutiny. She cried out at last : 

“He told me that I’d helped him. You see, he 
showed me what to do — how to keep moving 
Jimmy’s arms ... it was quite easy, only they 
were so heavy. ... 

“My dear. I’m afraid you’re thinking too much 
about this young man! Dear John asked him here 
out of charity, and the less you see of him the 
better. Now I want to know exactly why you’ve 
been crying.” 

“‘I don’t know,” said Janet desperately. The 
thought of that pale dreadful face in the glass, with 
its timorous almost foolish expression, its wistful 
eyes, dull skin, and graying hair, came back to her 
with renewed force. She envied her mother, who 


i8o 


AVERAGE CABINS 


was more than thirty years her senior, because her 
cheeks were still plump and rosy, her hair thick and 
of a beautiful whiteness, her eyes blue and keen 
with almost the bright look of steel in them. She 
remembered some one had told her long ago that 
her mother had made a beautiful bride when at the 
age of nineteen she had married the Rev. Charles 
Ponsford. 

“Now, that’s an absurd answer, Janet,” she said 
briskly. “Of course you know, and of course you 
are going to tell me. If you have any little thing 
on your mind you had much better confess it. For 
instance, were you upset — frightened — anxious about 
Mr. Lorimer’s safety?” 

“Oh, no; I didn’t see him in the water. If I’d 
seen him jump in to try to pull Jimmy out with 
only one hand to do it with, I think I should have 
been frightened. But it was nothing to do with 
that at all.” She made the statements hurriedly and 
nervously. But they carried no conviction to her 
mother’s ears. 

“Dear Janet, I think I must insist upon your tell- 
ing me. I can’t have you running after Mr. Lor- 
imer like this — it’s very undignified and it only makes 
you look foolish. And then you come home and 
go up to your room to cry like a baby. You know 
I never allow you to behave in this way. Besides, 
it’s bad for you. Remember what happened the 
other morning — all the result of imprudence and 
disobedience. Do you want me to tell Hodge that 
she mustn’t let you out of her sight? For that’s 
what will happen if I have any more of this kind 
of thing, and so I warn you. Now tell me at once 
what you were crying about!” 

The old tone of command had its effect upon 
Janet. For more years than she cared to count, 
she had found it irresistible. And then that dread- 
ful threat to make Hodge keep her always in sight. 


AVERAGE CABINS 


i8i 


Such a prospect was unthinkable. The vigilance 
was so seldom relaxed as it was. 

“I was crying — because I’m getting old,” said 
Janet. She spoke reluctantly, and the tears filled 
her eyes once more. Would that simple statement 
satisfy her mother? Or would she probe on with 
practised merciless scalpel till she came to the heart 
of the truth — that heart that shrank from the gaze 
of such pitiless eyes? 

“Silly child!” said Mrs. Ponsford, feeling never- 
theless relieved. “But what made you think about 
such a thing to-day?” 

“I . . . don’t know,” said Janet, helplessly. 

“Was it anything to do with Mr. Lorimer?” 
The voice was hard and clear, and the question 
seemed to ring through the little room. 

It was, thought Janet, rather like one of those 
dreadful games you played as a child, called What 
is my Thought like? One of the number thought 
of something, and all the rest sat round plying the 
victim with questions. And in the end some one 
always discovered that thought . . . 

She shrank back in her chair and hid her 
face in her hands. A low moan escaped her, it 
might have emanated from some wounded ani- 
mal. 

“No ... no! Oh, no — it can make no differ- 
ence to himP* She began to sob anew. 

“Do you mean you think he might have fallen in 
love with you if you had been younger?” 

“Oh, no ... no ...!.. .” 

Of course the Thought had been discovered. 
The cleverest, most alert player could never ulti- 
mately conceal it. 

“You have always been too delicate to marry. 
And I should never have permitted a daughter of 
mine at any age to marry a man like Mr. Lorimer. 
You are too old to be so sentimental, Janet — you 


1 82 AVERAGE CABINS 

should check such thoughts at once and not give 
way to them.” 

Mrs. Ponsford spoke with brisk decision. There 
was a pause, broken only by Janet’s sob$, which 
she strove valiantly to suppress. 

“Stop crying,” said Mrs. Ponsford; “really for 
a woman of thirty-five you are extraordinarily child- 
ish. If you don’t stop at once, I shall ring for 
Hodge, and you must go up to bed. You’ll make 
yourself quite ill and give every one a lot of trouble.” 

Janet dried her tears. She obeyed her mother 
almost mechanically. The ring of authority in Mrs. 
Ponsford’s voice braced^ her to the effort like the 
flick of a whip. It inspired, too, a sense of appre- 
hension and fear. To be led upstairs and helped 
to undress by Hodge was a humiliating process. 
Even as a child she had felt it to be a little degrad- 
ing. It was not a punishment, but it always seemed 
to her to hold something of the shame of punish- 
ment. It had to be done because she was ill, but 
Hodge always seemed to convey her unspoken con- 
viction that illness of that kind, nervous illness, was 
a subtle kind of naughtiness that required a certain 
retribution. And to-night Janet felt that it would 
be an unbearable termination to a day that had been 
so wonderful, a thing to be eternally remembered. 
Hadn’t she helped Mr. Lorimer — working with all 
her strength under his sharp short directions? 
Hadn’t he praised her? Yes, he had treated her 
like a woman, not like a foolish child. He was 
the first, the very first to do that. And it had 
made her his devoted, adoring slave . . . 

Mrs. Ponsford said slowly: 

“I believe Johnny has to go away for a few days 
on Thursday. I shall tell him to arrange for Mr. 
Lorimer to go with him. It would be altogether too 
dull for a young man to stay here with only two 
elderly women to entertain him.” 


AVERAGE CABINS 


183 

Two elderly women . . . Janet felt her heart 
sink, and a strange cold sensation came over her. 
Yes, he would go away, and he would never, never 
be invited to return. She would never see him 
again. She tottered to her feet, stood there with 
her hand on the back of a chair as if to support 
herself, and cried: 

“Oh, you are cruel — cruel 

But the effort was too much for her. She gave 
a prolonged and shrill cry, and fell insensible upon 
the floor. Mrs. Ponsford had just time to rise from 
her seat and go up to her to break her fall a little. 
There was always a danger that Janet might really 
hurt herself. 

Then she left her daughter lying there, prone 
and unconscious upon the carpet, and rang the bell 
violently. Yes, she might have known it would end 
like this. And Mr. Lorimer too I . . . ^What next, 
indeed?” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

T he ringing of the library bell had been too 
violent and prolonged, not to convey a sense 
of urgency and perhaps disaster to the assembled 
servants; and Hodge, followed by Watson, rushed 
with all haste into the room. 

“That’s Miss Janet been took ill, you may de- 
pend!” said the cook, a stout elderly woman with a 
marked preference for the “kitchen plots.” 
“There’ll be beef-tea wanted to-morrow.’’ She 
went on cooking the dinner with perfect calmness. 
Nothing short of a fire would have constrained 
her to leave the kitchen at such a moment. “Luckily 
there’s lots of boiling water. Miss Hodge’ll soon 


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184 

be down to fetch some.” She continued stirring 
the sauce with practised hand. 

In the library there was commotion, but no dis- 
may. Hodge knew exactly what to do. Father 
John was summoned and carried his sister up to her 
room. Her clothing was loosened; hot bottles were 
brought; she was laid upon the bed. A spoonful 
of brandy was forced between the parted pallid 
lips. Hodge gave her an injection which had long 
ago been recommended by Sir Oswald Metcalfe as 
an emergency measure. She had been taught to 
administer it, and sometimes the sudden sharp prick 
had brought Janet to her senses with its tingling 
pain. To-night, however, although Hodge had 
given it with more force than gentleness, the pros- 
trate form did not quiver. 

“More brandy — ‘I can hardly feel her pulse,” 
said John. 

They obeyed him. Mrs. Ponsford poured out 
the brandy. She could see that John was alarmed. 
But she had witnessed far worse attacks than this. 
Still, two in a week — it was unusual for them to 
follow each other with such rapidity. It would 
teach John not to bring strange, attractive, and 
impecunious young men to the house. What Janet 
required was perfect quiet, and freedom from any 
kind of excitement. This Lorimer must have 
shown her a certain pitying attention — quite the 
worst thing for her. He must leave Wanswater 
as soon as possible. She really couldn’t have Janet 
sacrificed for the sake of his soul! . . . These 
resolutions passed stormily through Mrs. Ponsford’s 
mind. She felt angry to-night with all her imme- 
diate entourage; she was angry with Lorimer, who 
had precipitated the crisis; with John for bringing 
him to Wanswater; and with Janet for her foolish 
tears and those horrible words of hers : you 


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185 

are cruel — cruel! . . Such a thing for a daughter 
to say to her mother, whose one object in life was 
to protect her from ill and to watch over her health. 
. . . Janet, with all her faults, had never before 
displayed any sign of this crass ingratitude. 

Then Janet had been such a fool, crying like that 
over her lost youth ; she had needed just a few severe 
words to check such ridiculous lamentations. It 
wasn’t as if she had ever been pretty or attractive or 
even intelligent; she had always been plain and 
awkward and stupid, the ugly duckling . . . And 
this man Lorimer — a person quite remote from their 
own circle, whom John had befriended out of 
pity! ... 

Suddenly John said : “I wonder if Stokes is back 
yet? He said he’d look in on his way home to see 
how Lorimer was getting on. He’d better see Janet. 
Do ask if he’s come, Hodge.” 

Hodge went reluctantly out of the room. They 
had far better have left her quite alone with her 
patient. She knew so well how to manage her, 
what to say when she came round. 

“I’m sure it was most unnecessary that he should 
pay two visits in one afternoon,” said Mrs. Pons- 
ford. There was a note of exasperation in her 
voice. John must really learn not to exaggerate 
the significance of this young man. 

“Well, Stokes didn’t think so — it was his own 
suggestion. Lorimer’s got a touch of fever now 
— he was shivering, didn’t know quite what he was 
saying — asked if the boy was safe and all that sort 
of thing. It was a jolly plucky thing to do, wasn’t 
it? The lake’s so deep just there.” 

Mrs. Ponsford was silent. She continued to 
chafe Janet’s hands. 

“Stokes says he thinks he’ll be as right as rain in 
about a week, if he doesn’t get pneumonia.” 


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“In a week? But I thought you were going away 
on Thursday? What are you going to do about 
him?” 

“I shan’t go if he’s very bad, but if I do, I’ll 
leave him to all your tender mercies !” He grinned. 
“Especially Hodge’s. It’ll be a sound mortification 
for her to look after him.” 

“Hodge’s place is here. With Janet,” said Mrs. 
Ponsford, closing her lips firmly. “I couldn’t spare 
her to nurse this man.” She glanced significantly at 
her daughter’s prostrate and unconscious form. 

“More brandy,” said John. “Is she often as 
long as this? Poor old Jane !” He administered a 
few drops of brandy. “Janet will help, too, when 
she’s better — it’ll be a capital thing for her — take 
her out of herself, and Denis likes her. She can 
read to him — amuse him.” 

“What you suggest is impossible and I should 
never allow it,” said Mrs. Ponsford in a tone of 
finality. “She’s inclined to be sentimental about him 
as it is — I found that out this evening. And of 
course he sees it, too, and plays up — that sort of 
man would. You must take him away to the hos- 
pital at Kenstone — there’s a private ward where 
he’ll have every attention.” 

John felt stupefied at these unexpected revelations. 
Where he had feared and perhaps dreaded, Mrs. 
Ponsford had apparently discovered irrefutable evi- 
dence. How did she know? Had Janet said any- 
thing? Poor Janet . . . He was just going to reply 
when Hodge entered the room. 

“Dr. Stokes has just come, ma’am. He’ll be 
down in a moment. I think it’s time for a second 
injection.” She took up the needle, examining it. 

Janet was still lying there with closed eyes and 
parted lips, her face deathlike in its livid pallor. 

“Don’t pump ‘any more poison into her till Stokes 
has seen her,” said John. 


AVERAGE CABINS 187 

The words made Hodge flinch, but she stood her 
ground. 

“Poison,^ sir? Sir Oswald Metcalfe said it was 
the best thing to bring her round from a very obsti- 
nate attack.” There was reproach in her voice as 
she mentioned this unimpeachable authority. 

“All right, Hodge. Wait till Stokes has seen 
her.” 

Mrs. Ponsford intervened. 

“Hodge is so accustomed to Janet’s attacks. I 
don’t think we ought to interfere. And this young 
Stokes has probably had no experience of these cases. 
A young man like that ! I wonder you troubled to 
send for him.” 

But John shook his head. He was thinking of 
Lorimer’s words. Lorimer at any rate didn’t be- 
lieve that the malady had been accurately diagnosed, 
certainly in its present phase. And Sir Oswald, a 
great man in his day, had been dead these twenty 
years. It was high time to have a fresh more 
modern opinion. They had all got into a rut of 
cruelty where Janet was concerned. Oh, it was 
no use mincing matters! They didn’t allow her 
space in which to breathe. She was caged, im- 
prisoned, aware of suffering. She was so com- 
pletely in the hands of Hodge. And he remembered 
with a pang the almost vindictive manner in which 
Hodge had administered the injection, plunging the 
needle into that white arm with merciless force. 

“What am I to do, ma’am?” said Hodge, in a 
tone of patient resignation. She was still finger- 
ing the polished surface of the syringe. 

“You must obey Father John,” said Mrs. Pons- 
ford; “he must take all the responsibility. ^ hope 
Dr. Stokes will come down soon.” 

“You can go and tell him to come at once. We 
can’t let this go on — please make haste, Hodge,” 
said John. 


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Hodge moved sullenly away. ‘‘He didn’t used to 
interfere,” she muttered. “Getting made a Papist 
and a priest has been the ruin of him. He was 
always so civil-spoken before, and now he don’t 
trust any one without they’re of his own way of 
thinking. And such a fuss, too, over that there 
Lorimer.” 

In the passage, outside Lorimer’s room, she en- 
countered Dr. Stokes. 

“Father John wants you to come at once, if you 
please, sir.” 

“Yes, I’m sorry to keep him waiting. But I 
couldn’t leave Mr. Lorimer. You’d better stay with 
him till I come back, in case he wants anything. 
It never rains but it pours — you’ll have two patients 
to look after now.” 

Hodge did not reply. The gay pleasant tone 
won no response from her. 

“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of experience of 
nursing. Father John says you’ve been with his 
mother thirty years. Mr. Lorimer’ll want poul- 
tices and beef-tea and lots of looking after.” 

“I’ve enough to do looking after Miss Janet, 
sir,” she replied. 

“Oh, Miss Janet will be better for being left 
alone a bit.” 

Hodge moved unwillingly towards Lorimer’s 
room. Was she to take orders — and such orders 
too — from this young upstart of a doctor who had 
never set foot in the house before? So different 
from old Dr. Taylor, with his implicit confidence 
in her unwearying devotion to Miss Janet! Better 
for being left alone indeed . . . Left alone so that 
she could go out by herself and get mixed up with 
accidents and people like Mr. Lorimer. Hodge 
had never held with young doctors, and this one 
seemed to talk of illness as if it were a joke. What 
did he know about Miss Janet? Left alone indeed 1 


AVERAGE CABINS 189 

they would send for her fast enough when there 
was an injection to be given . . . 

John said: “What’s that stuff Hodge was giv- 
ing her with the syringe? I didn’t like the way 
she gave it — it seemed to me that she used unneces- 
sary violence.” 

Dr. Stokes was feeling Janet’s pulse. He made 
no sign of having heard John’s remark. 

“Hodge knows exactly what to do. She’s been 
doing this sort of thing for thirty years. Sir Oswald 
Metcalfe — ” 

“IVletcalfe? Metcalfe?” said Dr. Stokes, look- 
ing im. “Don’t know the name! London man?” 

“Twenty years ago he was the first heart specialist 
in London,” said Mrs. Ponsford. 

“Oh, a heart specialist! . . . But haven’t you 
ever let her see a brain specialist?” 

The words were uttered now, and John felt as 
much relieved as if the doctor had revealed a guilty 
secret that was weighing on his own conscience. 

Mrs. Ponsford turned quite pale. But she re- 
covered quickly from the unexpected impact, severe 
though it had been. 

“My daughter’s heart has been affected since she 
was nine years old.” 

“She mustn’t have any more injections to-day,” 
said Dr. Stokes. “What was given her? Let me 
see the bottle.” 

Mrs. Ponsford named the drug. “Generally that 
— and the prick — ^brings her round at once.” 

Stokes repressed an ironic smile. 

“Well, we’ll try something a little less drastic. 
Had Miss Ponsford had anything to upset her to- 
day?” 

“She had rather a shock — you see she arrived just 
in time to find Lorimer trying to bring little Jimmie 
Nicholls round. She helped him—” explained 
Father John. 


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“That oughtn’t to have hurt her. Did she seem 
all right when she came in?” 

“Oh, yes,” said John, before his mother could 
speak. “She was just a little excited . . . that’s 
all.” 

He thought of her pale pleading face, her passion- 
ate request to be permitted to see Lorimer. 

“When she came down after tea, she’d been cry- 
ing,” struck in Mrs. Ponsford; “she looked very 
much upset. Hodge found her crying.” 

Crying? Why had she been crying? She had 
looked so bright and happy, almost like a young girl, 
when she had emerged from that brief interview 
with Lorimer. John was glad to think he hadn’t 
refused her that little pleasure, that he had let her 
have those few minutes of happiness. She had 
come out with her face all soft and aglow. What 
could have happened to turn her joy into pain? 
Something had been said, perhaps . . . He put the 
thought from him, as unfilial, disloyal . . . 

“I’d like to try a different plan with Janet — 
with your approval,” he said turning to Dr. Stokes. 

think she’s beginning to feel all this discipline and 
vigilance that has been thought necessary for her 
health. Hodge watches her as if she were a little 
girl. I’d like her to be more free — to come in and 
go out as she likes — in reason of course. It’ll be 
good for her — for her soul as well as her body.’^’ 

“John!” expostulated Mrs. Ponsford. 

“51 think your notion is a sound one. Father,” 
said the doctor, “but I shall have to know much more 
about her first. When she’s better I must have a 
talk with her alone and see how the land lies. Gen- 
erally speaking, these cases need to be trained to 
self-discipline and self-reliance. Has she ever had 
a fright — a bad fright of any kind?” He had keen 
gray eyes set under rather bushy black brows, and 
he looked very searchingly at John as he spoke. 


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191 

John looked at his mother, as if waiting for her 
to speak. Mrs. Ponsford did not appear to hear, 
for she continued chafing Janet’s hands. Her face 
was imperturbable. 

What did she remember of that scene enacted 
nearly twenty-six years ago, when a little child had 
flung herself upon her protection and had been 
coldly repulsed? It had never been mentioned be- 
tween them. He did not even know if Janet her- 
sdf remembered it. But that tragic day had wit- 
nessed the very first of this long series of collapses 
that had shattered her youth and prematurely aged 
her. 

He said very slowly : 

‘‘I believe she did have a fright just before her 
first attack when she was nine years old.” 

The words dropped reluctantly from his lips. 

“Oh, I see,” said Dr. Stokes. “Does she re- 
member the occurrence?” 

“If she does, she’s never mentioned it.” 

“Does that maid of yours — ” he turned to Mrs. 
Ponsford — “does that maid of yours terrorize her?” 

“Certainly not. She has been with me for thirty 
years, and for more than twenty-five she has looked 
after my daughter.” 

But John thought of the needle being plunged so 
violently into that white arm. He said: “I think 
myself, she’d be better with some one else !” 

“John, you don’t know what you’re talking about. 
These attacks may come on at any minute — she 
might drop down dead.” Mrs. Ponsford looked at 
him in consternation. Had he taken leave of his 
senses? 

“There’s weakness of the heart, but it’s caused 
by the general debility, the want of constitution,” 
said Dr. Stokes. “It oughtn’t to involve any great 
danger. But we’re dealing with the brain now, 
Mrs. Ponsford. These long bouts of unconscious- 


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ness resulting from fear — from repressed fear one 
may say — are highly mysterious, but there is no doubt 
they originate in the brain rather than in the heart.” 

“But Sir Oswald Metcalfe assured me — ” she 
began. 

“Did he ever see* her as she is now?” interrupted 
Dr. Stokes. 

“No,” she admitted reluctantly. 

“Well, then, I have the advantage over him. I 
know I’m only a country practitioner, but I’ve seen 
odd cases of the kind in France.” 

Mrs. Ponsford felt that the solid earth was giv- 
ing way beneath her feet. The treatment which 
had been followed with such meticulous care for so 
many years had been crystallized, not to say pet- 
rified, by habitual usage, and she was not going to 
allow the first ignorant bumptious cocksure young 
man who came along to change it. She could not 
alter the mechanism of the whole household, and per- 
mit Janet to go forth without the aid of Hodge. 
Her life had made her in a sense childish, unac- 
customed to act and think for herself, and perhaps 
that lack of independence had been increased by the 
discipline and surveillance adjudged essential for her 
physical infirmity. She had never had the free ac- 
tive life that young women normally enjoy; it would 
have killed her. And so she had grown up to be 
obedient, dependent, submissive. Hodge could al- 
ways control her better than any one, and perhaps 
Janet had realized this, and it may have made her, 
well, say, a little timid of Hodge. There was no 
harm in that. A moderate fear accelerated obedi- 
ence ; she had learnt that from her dealings with her 
own eight children. And so if Janet ever showed 
any obstinacy about a prescribed course, Mrs. Pons- 
ford always sent for Hodge. “Hodge has such a 
good influence over Janet,” she used to say, “and 
then she understands her better than any one — she’s 


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193 

been with her since she was a little child. I don’t 
know what I should do without Hodge.” 

“These attacks are veiy weakening. If they are 
allowed to go on they will become so frequent that 
she won’t be able to resist them,” said Dr. Stokes, 
suddenly. 

“You don’t understand. She is perfectly sensible 
and all that, but in many ways she’s like an unde- 
veloped child. It would be wrong to give her any 
kind of freedom.” 

“She needs patience and tenderness. Her mind 
is more sick than her body.” 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” said Mrs. 
Ponsford, with some indignation. “And it’s im- 
possible to alter the treatment after all these years. 
Twenty-six — ” 

“Medical science has made a little progress since 
then — we must try more modern methods.” Dr. 
Stokes had a very square jaw, and looked like a man 
who was accustomed to impose his own will on 
others. 

He was leaning over his patient. 

“She’s coming to. Will you both go away, 
please?” 

Mrs. Ponsford stood firm. “It’ll terrify her to 
see a strange face when she comes to — it’s enough 
to give her another attack. You’d much better let 
Hodge prepare her for your being here.” 

“No, thanks — ^I’m going to do this myself. And 
I must be alone with Miss Ponsford. You need not 
be afraid of her having another attack — I’ll take 
the risk.” 

John slipped his arm in his mother’s and drew her 
towards the door. She was a drag upon him, reluc- 
tant, unwilling; he felt that in every muscle. 

“Johnny, you don’t know what you’re doing. 
It’ll be the death of her. We do know best,” she 
whispered. 


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‘‘Come, Mother,” he insisted. “Let’s give Stokes? 
a chance this time. And I think he’s right — some- 
thing ought to be changed. I’ve not been very 
happy about Janet myself lately.” 

He led her out on to the landing and closed the 
door of Janet’s room. From within they could hear 
the low murmur of voices. 

“What do you think she’s saying to him?” de- 
manded Mrs. Ponsford fiercely. 

“Saying to him?” But the question and her ac- 
companying look made his heart sink a little. “Say- 
ing to him? Why, what should she say to him?” 

“I had to speak very severely to Janet about Mr. 
Lorimer this evening,” she said. 

“Oh, I’m very sorry you did that. Mother,” said 
John gently. 

“I did it for her good. She thought — indeed she 
said — that I was cruel. He must leave here as 
soon as possible !” 

“We must think of him as well as of Janet. He 
may be in for a serious go of pneumonia, Stokes 
says. Mother, I’m awfully sorry you should have 
all this worry.” 

He linked his arm in hers and they went down 
to the library together. She said : 

“You’re breaking my heart! ... I suppose this 
is the result of your new religion. You’ve never 
been like this to me before — going against me, too, 
about Janet. It’s that mountebank upstairs. You 
ought never to have brought him to the house. You 
were always as weak as water. We were per- 
fectly happy — ^.Tanet and I. . . .” 

“Janet wasn’t happy. She’s fretted about her 
lack of freedom. We must change all that.” 
John’s face was rigid and the words sounded hard. 

“Don’t be cruel, Johnny. You know what sac- 
rifices I’ve made for Janet. She’s been my one care 
since all the others left home.” 


AVERAGE CABINS 


195 


“Yes, yes, I know.” John touched the plump be- 
ringed hand with a kind of awkward tenderness. 
“But you can kill with kindness, too, and sometimes 
I think you do forget that Janet isn’t a little girl 
any more, and that perhaps a more intelligent com- 
panion than Hodge might help to develop her.” 

“She’s a child in mind.” 

“Yes, but how could you expect anything else 
with such a woman as Hodge for her constant com- 
panion — ignorant, illiterate, tyrannical?” 

“She is an excellent devoted servant. It’s that 
mountebank upstairs that’s set you against her.” 

“Not at all. But the treatment has been bad 
for Janet. You might just as well put a delicate 
plant in a cellar and deprive it of light and air to 
keep it safe, and then expect it to grow.” 

“Why have you never said all this before, John?” 
she asked sharply. “Hodge has looked after Janet 
for twenty-five years, and all your brothers and sis- 
ters have been perfectly satisfied, have praised her 
untiring vigilance. . . . They don’t think I’ve been 
harsh and cruel to my own daughter!” 

“And you know that I haven’t said it or thought it 
either. But I see that a change is necessary. Per- 
haps it is because my work is concerned with souls 
now, more closely and intimately than it ever was 
before. And I’m thinking of Janet’s soul — starved, 
imprisoned, timid . . .” 

“You mean, you want to make her a Roman 
Catholic?” she asked. “You’d rather make a 
feeble-minded proselyte than none ? They all count, 
I suppose?” Her tone was bitter. 

“I don’t want her to be one against her own will. 
But I know it would help her, give her poise, a 
sense of responsibility. It would develop her spirit- 
ually.” 

“And then you’ll let her marry that mountebank, 
who is after her money!” she struck in bitterly. 


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John’s face flushed. “I wouldn’t have her marry 
him for all the world. Besides, he’s ever so much 
younger — he’d never think of Janet — ” 

“I know better,” she said; “he’s been showing her 
surreptitious attention ever since he came here. 
He’s trying to make her fall in love with him, and 
I’m not sure that he hasn’t already succeeded. Be- 
fore you contradict me, will you tell me if Lorimer 
knows about Janet’s money?” 

John paused. “Yes, I think he does — ^but what’s 
that got to do with it? I think I told him once in 
course of conversation that she had a little less than 
we all have.” 

Mrs. Ponsford looked at him with cold triumph. 

“I was sure of it! I was certain he knew . . . 
I shall tell Hodge.” 

“Hodge !” he repeated. “Why, what has Hodge 
got to do with it?” 

“Hodge noticed it before I did. I told her 
to keep Janet in her sight as much as possible after 
that day he hung about her in the garden. I saw at 
once what he was after. Why, the man’s a pauper. 
Six hundred a year would be affluence to him. 
Hodge tells me that his boots — he’s only got one 
pair — are simply falling to pieces!” 

“You should not encourage Hodge to gossip about 
our guests.” 

“And you should not bring that kind of person to 
the house. I saw he was an intriguing sort of man 
from the first moment. Like an actor out of work.” 

“He’s mv friend and I wanted to help him.” 
John moved towards the door. The conversation 
sickened him. “I’m going up to him now. Stokes 
thinks he’s pretty bad.” 


AVERAGE CABINS 


197 


CHAPTER XIX 

A S he went upstairs to Lorimcr’s room, John 
had to pass Janet’s door. It was still closed, 
and he did not like to go in and see how she was. 
Dr. Stokes must have had a particular reason for 
wishing to be alone with her when she recovered 
consciousness. Perhaps he had believed he would 
thus learn something more about her mysterious 
malady. 

He opened the door of Lorimer’s room, and saw 
that Hodge was sitting near the fire, with a hard, 
patient, immovable look on her face. For the first 
time, perhaps, it occurred to him to distrust her. 
She must have made Janet so miserable. Yet she 
was only obeying instructions, and the unhappy fea- 
ture of the case was that no member of the family 
had ever hitherto tried to intervene or insist upon any 
modification of the treatment. Why had he never 
seen all this before? Janet had uttered no word 
of complaint, and it was only to-day that she had 
ever hinted to him that she found her position gall- 
ing. It is true that she had on the first day of his 
return suggested that she would like to be his peni- 
tent and tell him things which he could never by any 
possibility repeat, and he wished he had encouraged 
her to speak more freely then. Perhaps it had 
been cowardice on his part, but now he would do 
all he could for her. And then he remembered that 
it was Lorimer with his keen fresh vision, who had 
spoken to him about Janet’s malady, and first sug- 
gested that all was not being done that could be 
done for her. Yes, if it had not been for Lorimer, 
he too mieht have remained blind. . . . 

Only, his mother was surely wrong in ever sup- 
posing that Lorimer would dream of marrying 
Janet. She was several years older than he was. 


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and she looked much older than her age. Lorimer 
had only interested himself in her as in a case. He 
had studied enough to acquire a certain superficial 
knowledge of the more subtle forms of mental ab- 
normality; and his experiences in France had brought 
him into touch with many cases of loss of memory, 
and other mournful consequences of shock induced 
by the War. Janet had, no doubt, awakened his 
curiosity and then his pity. -Denis always had a 
lurking tenderness for suffering things, as well as 
a deep compassion for anything weak and helpless. 
There was a kind, sympathetic side to his disposi- 
tion, and these were among its agreeable traits. He 
hated to see any one wronged or bullied. 

“Mr. Lorimer’s still asleep, sir,” said Hodge. 
She had never accustomed herself to call him 
“Father.” “If you’re going to be here, perhaps 
I’d better go back to Miss Janet.” 

“No — the doctor’s still with her. As he’s asleep, 
I may as well go and see how they’re getting 
on.” 

“She’s come to, sir?” inquired Hodge. 

“Oh, yes, but I haven’t seen her since. Dr. 
Stokes wished to be alone with her.” 

“I wonder Mrs. Ponsford allowed it, sir. Miss 
Janet often talks very wildly when she first comes 
round. It doesn’t do to encourage her — I always 
try to stop her. One of us ought to have been 
there to check her.” 

“I’m sure Dr. Stokes will do whatever’s right,” 
said John. 

As he came down the passage. Dr. S'tokes opened 
the door- of Janet’s room. 

“Oh, there you are. Father. Your sister’s come 
round quite nicely. I’d like you to see her — she’s 
been asking for you.” 

John followed him into the room and shut the 
door. Janet was lying slightly raised on the pillows ; 


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199 

she looked very quiet but exhausted, as if she had 
passed through a sharp experience of suffering. 

“Johnny! . . She put out her hand, and her 
eyes filled with tears. 

“Dear Jane!” he said tenderly. He took her 
hand, caressing it. 

“I don’t want Hodge to come — ” she whispered. 

“No — no — I don’t think she will look after you 
any more.” 

She looked at him in incredulous astonishment. 

“Not any more? But who’s going to prevent 

“I am. And Dr. Stokes.” 

Janet smiled, but there was sadness in her smile. 

“You’ll never be able to. Mamma won’t have 
it.” 

“Well, we’re going to have a try,” said John. 

“Mamma has so much confidence in Hodge.” 

Oh, he was building strangely beautiful castles 
in the air, but they could never materialize, those 
houses of joy and dreams! . . . For John would 
soon in the natural course of things leave Wans- 
water, and perhaps he would take Lorimer with him. 
She would go back to the old gray life with her 
mother and Hodge. 

“Better not talk any more,” said Dr Stokes. “I’ll 
stay a bit longer and then I’ll go up and have an- 
other look at Mr. Lorimer.” 

“He was still asleep just now,” said John. 

John went quietly away and mounted the stairs 
to his attic-chapel. There would be no Lorimer to 
serve his Mass on the morrow. Hitherto he had 
never failed him. But to-night John Ponsford was 
thinking less of Lorimer than of Janet. For her 
future presented fresh difficulties at every turn, and 
he came to the conclusion that cruelty was as often 
the result of apathy and indolence as of actual 
malevolence. People let things slide, accustomed 


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themselves to existing situations without examining 
them to see if they were causing hurt or suffering to 
another person. Hodge represented the line of 
least resistance. To change anything meant effort, 
and Mrs. Ponsford, rightly or wrongly, considered 
that she had made sufficient efforts in her life, and 
might now rest upon her laurels and hand a rather 
disagreeable task over to Hodge, with the complete 
confidence that it would be adequately and punctually 
discharged. 

Suddenly he saw that the scheme would involve 
self-sacrifice on his own part. He had an ardent 
wish to enter the Benedictine Order, for which he 
had already been accepted. It had been his inten- 
tion to return to Rome for a few months to finish his 
studies, and then enter a monastery. But now he 
would have to defer this until something definite 
had been decided for Janet. He might even have 
to become a simple parish priest in England, where 
he could have his sister near him for at least part of 
the year. He couldn’t leave her at Wanswater in 
the transition stage from complete dependence to 
partial freedom. She must have a fair chance. Am- 
bition was not dead in John, although all his ambi- 
tions were now of a spiritual character. He fore- 
saw difficult days both for himself and Janet. She 
would be as a child learning its first steps . . . That 
new and untried draught of freedom might well 
prove an intoxicating thing. A cloud came over 
his face. Yes, but she would be a Catholic; there 
would be nothing to prevent her fulfilling that 
wish, and^ indeed from his point of view it was 
highly desirable that she should have all the aid she 
could, spiritual as well as physical. It was a pity 
it hadn’t been ten years ago, when she was still 
young. . . . 

Then there would be the difficulty of taking her 
away from Wanswater. Mrs. Ponsford would 


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201 


probably oppose such a course very strongly. It 
would be for him to accept the whole weight of the 
responsibility, to make plans and carry them out. 

But of one thing he was quite resolved. Janet 
must never suffer in the future as she had done in 
the past. He must make the sacrifice quietly, and 
she must never learn what it had cost him. Perhaps 
he would talk things over with Lorimer when he 
was better. 

He knelt down before the Altar, at which every 
day he offered the Holy Sacrifice. It seemed to him 
that the Divine Presence lingered there, descending 
upon his soul with a strange grace of healing. 

John had had, ever since he was a child, a passion- 
ate love for his Divine Master. With him it was 
a fierce emotion, inexplicable to those who have 
never experienced it. It had grown year by year, 
until it had caused him to fling aside those excellent 
material prospects which the Church of England 
promised him, for a future that was untried and 
nebulous. But the Catholic Church promised him 
spiritual riches, a far more close and intimate com- 
munion with Him upon Whom his heart’s love was 
so surely set, the graces of a mystical life, and he 
had made the sacrifice joyfully. 

It was not only that the dire confusion of the Eng- 
lish Church had dismayed and distressed him, but 
that he seemed himself to be torn therein by con- 
flicting duties. He had learned to teach a modified 
Catholic doctrine, without ever daring to pronounce 
the irrefragable dogmas of the Catholic Church 
which would have been unacceptable to his bishop. 
Yet, at the same time, it was required of him to give 
his assent to the Thirty-nine Articles, which in most 
cases were the very negation of those doctrines, and 
the thought tormented him. He was not able to 
accept those articles in a “Catholic” sense as other 
men informed him they were able to do. John’s 


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soul was far too simple and straightforward to 
linger in a course that was to him ambiguous and 
even perilous. He longed to teach the fulness of 
Catholic doctrine in the Catholic Church without 
let or hindrance, nay more as a precious duty to be 
accomplished unremittingly. And the first step 
led with him quite simply to another. He wished 
to follow the more perfect way that lies in the re- 
ligious life. Nothing less than the complete abne- 
gation would satisfy him. But as he knelt there that 
evening, he felt that the sacrifice he had offered had 
been refused, and that another and far harder one 
had been demanded of him. . . . 

And then submission came. His sister’s destiny 
was, humanly speaking, in his hands. It was his 
task to release her, to train that soul, so repressed 
and starved, to its new spiritual life. He felt that 
he could make her happy. Normally the convert 
always has to set forth upon a new life arranged 
upon new lines. It was necessary to turn a fresh 
page. And he could lead Janet gently into that 
new life, teaching her step by step. He would make 
amends to her for all that she had suffered, con- 
sciously and unconsciously. The work was ready 
to his hand; he could not refuse it. He believed 
that those in authority over him would recommend 
that at least for a time he should work as a parish 
priest somewhere in England, where he could look 
after his sister. 

When he rose from his knees his face was very 
calm. He must explain it all to his mother. 
There must be no sort of quarrel between them. 
But she must see that things could not go on as they 
were. Janet had been sufficiently sacrificed. 

It was not quite dinner time, so on his way down- 
stairs to join his mother, he entered Lorimer’s room. 
He found him awake, very flushed and feverish- 
looking. 


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203 


“Well, Denis?” he said. 

Lorimer flung himself restlessly from side to side. 

“My dear John — I’m simply burning hot all over. 
I’m not even sure that I didn’t like being frozen 
better!” 

John poured out something from a glass jug that 
stood near. He held the glass to the sick man’s 
lips, and Lorimer drank thirstily. It seemed to 
revive and quiet him, for soon afterwards he fell 
into a light uneasy slumber. 

Seen thus in the shaded light of the lamp, screened 
carefully so as not to fall upon his face, Lorimer 
looked arrestingly handsome. His dark disheveled 
hair, tossed back from his brow (such a broad 
noble brow I ) , made a black patch against the pillows. 
His face, sharpened by privation and by all the suffer- 
ings, mental and physical, he had endured during 
the last few months, had an almost ascetic appear- 
ance. A bright flush colored the high cheek-bones. 

John was always so deeply concerned with the 
souls of others and so little with their bodies, that 
he realized Lorimer’s beauty for the first time, and 
realized it, too, almost with consternation, and cer- 
tainly with dismay. He was seeing him perhaps as 
Janet saw him, as something a little wonderful. 
Janet had known but few men in her life outside 
the circle of her brothers and brothers-in-law, and 
she had known none intimately. It was quite pos- 
sible that Lorimer’s beauty had attracted her to 
him in the first instance, and that softness of manner, 
that ready sympathy which he displayed to all 
women, had quickly completed the conquest of her. 

He had never thought of Denis as a man whom it 
would be dangerous to invite to the Grange. He 
had wished to help him, and all that Lorimer had 
revealed to him of the smirch and stain of his past 
life, had only rendered more passionate his desire 
to assist him spiritually. But now he saw clearly 


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that in bringing him here he had not reckoned with 
Janet. Even now he was inclined to put the possi- 
bility of her falling in love with Lorimer from his 
thoughts with indignant denial. He would not have 
liked any of his sisters to marry a man of whom he 
knew so little, and that little, something which did 
not in the least redound to his credit. But there was 
no danger of his wishing to marry Janet — that 
thought seemed tojohn entirely absurd. He had not 
in the least recovered from that Roman affair, al- 
though he now never spoke of Donna Camilla. And 
it was quite unlikely that he could care for an elderly 
faded woman so much his senior. 

Yet he was bound to acknowledge that the man 
had purposely perhaps played a picturesque part 
ever since he had arrived at the Grange. Situations 
of a kind seemed to spring up in his path, and he 
made abundant use of them. There was that 
swift rush to Janet’s side that morning in the chapel, 
that lifting her up and carrying her downstairs. 
John felt sure that he had enjoyed the dra- 
matic moment, had considered himself deeply in- 
jured because Hodge had refused to allow him to 
remain with her. Then that impetuous plunge into 
the icy deeps of Wanswater to rescue little Jimmy 
Nicholls. ... It was a plucky action for a one- 
armed man. The mischief was that he accomplished 
all these things without simplicity, but as if he 
knew that the limelight was playing upon him and 
revealing him as the central and most important 
figure of the drama. 

Life often offers to men the opportunities their 
dispositions demand, as well as those temptations 
whose lure is to them almost irresistable. And Lor- 
imer made use of his dramatic opportunities with 
an easy grace — the grace of an actor whose second 
home is on the boards. He seemed to know just 
the moment when applause would greet his ears. 


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205 


He could sway men and women to tears and laugh- 
ter. And he was aware too, just as the actor is 
aware, of those occasions when he failed to convince. 
The stony eye of disapproving detection could make 
his heart sink. John believed that he had discerned 
it in Mrs. Ponsford as well as in Hodge during his 
stay at the Grange. Mountebank? . . . The word 
came back to him now, and he was annoyed with 
himself for even faintly and secretly admitting that 
it was far from inappropriate. 

But, alas, with Janet, Lorimer had succeeded. 
Janet too had had her subordinate part to play in 
that scene by the lakeside. John knew that she 
had been proud to feel that she had helped him, and 
helped him adequately in that moment of stress. 
Although he had not himself witnessed that episode, 
he felt convinced from subsequent happenings that 
it had profoundly affected his sister, and that it had 
made her clearly aware of her own attitude towards 
Lorimer, changing it with extraordinary rapidity 
from passive gratitude to an active and passionate 
love. It had aroused and awakened her, and she 
was able to see her starved unhappy life in the 
mirror of that new light. It had taught her lessons 
of which, without it, she might always have remained 
in ignorance. The danger to Janet lay in the fact 
that Lorimer would certainly never reciprocate that 
love he had perhaps deliberately evoked. 

John felt that his next task would be to remove 
Lorimer from the Grange as soon as possible, before 
that new-born passionate impulse of love could be 
crystallized into a permanent emotion. It was so 
terrible — that love that comes for the first time late 
in life. ... 

It would be impossible, however, to remove Lor- 
imer to Kenstone in his present state, as Mrs. Pons- 
ford had so harshly suggested. John could not 
agree to do that, even though he saw eye to eye 


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with his mother as to the paramount necessity of 
removing him as soon as possible from Janet’s field 
of vision. Fortunately in one sense her faculties 
were weak, and she would probably soon forget all 
about him ; her memory had suffered a little by the 
very frequency of those attacks that had so under- 
mined her health. And then in her new life of 
freedom she would have many other things to think 
of. She would have pleasant duties and studies. 
Her instruction should last if possible for several 
months. But into that new life of hers Lorimer 
must not trespass. There was no place for that 
derelict figure with its strange appealing beauty, its 
utter want of poise or of serious purpose. Perhaps 
the thought of him would recur to Janet’s mind 
sometimes like some tormenting memory, beautiful 
and a little perilous. But she would certainly soon 
substantially forget him. He had been there such 
a short time : the impression could not be very deep, 
very permanent. 

And then as John gazed again at that slumbering 
fevered face, something in Denis gave the lie to all 
these comforting reflections. He even felt a sense 
of disloyalty for having entertained thoughts that 
were prejudicial to him. For, after all, Lorimer 
was wont to turn to him in hours of need. There 
were those davs in Florence. ... It is true that 
even then Lorimer had never shown the slightest 
contrition; spirituallv he had been hard and obdu- 
rate, blaming Pio bitterly, vowing vengeance upon 
him, but never regretting his own action which had 
caused the quarrel. 

Lorimer opened his eyes suddenly and said: 

“But, dear Janet — of course you helped me!” 
He looked up into John’s face with a glance that was 
at once tender and unrecognizing. 

John’s heart sank. So it was true, then. . . . 
That soft light tone of his stabbed the man who lis- 


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207 


tened. Lorimer must have deliberately set himself 
to win Janet’s love. Mrs. Ponsford’s suggestion 
that he was “after her money,’’ came back to his 
mind with fresh and sinister significance. John had 
denied it passionately; now the fancy laid chilly and 
compelling hands upon him. This man had no 
doubt spoken to Janet in just such tender and caress- 
ing tones as he had now used, sure perhaps of her 
response. 

Janet had passed through a series of fierce and 
complicated emotions that day ; it was small wonder 
that one of those mysterious crises should have over- 
taken her, diminishing her vitality, her slender store 
of resistance. The excitement of helping him to 
restore Jimmy Nicholls to consciousness had been 
rapidly followed by her eager urgent request to be 
permitted to see Lorimer. Had he made a mistake 
in allowing her to have that brief interview? John 
remembered again her face as she came towards him, 
aglow with a soft radiance. Then there had been a 
scene of some sort — he was sure of that — between 
his mother and Janet. Perhaps Mrs. Ponsford 
had spoken disparagingly of Lorimer, perhaps she 
had imposed her own will more insistently than 
usual upon her daughter with regard to future meet- 
ings, future conversations with Denis. Or she 
might even have made Janet aware that she had 
discovered her secret, and was prepared to combat 
that growing preference for Lorimer. And even 
now John was not able to assure himself that such 
cruelty was utterly unnecessary. Wasn’t he himself 
planning to separate them? Didn’t he, too, see 
something to shudder at in the vision of Janet mar- 
ried for her money to this slightly dilapidated and 
even dishonorable man? For if Lorimer wished 
to marry Janet, it could only be on account of her 
money. He could not possibly have fallen in love 
with this faded, pathetically-aged woman, childish 


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in will and in development, and prone to constant 
attacks of a mysterious malady. Dearly as John 
loved his sister, he could see that hers was a figure 
to inspire the deepest pity and compassion, but never 
love. 

The fresh complications, however, seemed to ren- 
der his own task still more delicate and difficult. He 
saw Lorimer in a sinister light, and he felt that he 
might have to take him into account as well. That 
the man was unscrupulous, was plainly shown in his 
recent dealings with Camilla Ascarelli. He had no 
money, perhaps indeed he had importunate credi- 
tors, and it might be highly necessary for him to 
obtain large sums by some means, fair or other- 
wise. Janet’s income would perhaps represent 
something at once desirable, adequate, and easily ob- 
tainable. She had not now the full control of her 
money, but in the event of her marriage — it hadn’t 
seemed worth while, the Dean had thought, to take 
such an improbable event as that into practical ac- 
count — she would have full control. 

Lorimer tossed to and fro, muttering uneasily. 
The delirium of fever was upon him.' He would 
have to be watched to-night. John hoped that Dr. 
Stokes would not forget to telephone to Kenstone 
for a nurse. Lorimer did not again utter Janet’s 
name. Sometimes he spoke in fluent Italian, so rap- 
idly that John could not catch the words. Some- 
times it was Latin — the words of some psalm learned 
in his school days. Once he cried, ^^Camilla, Ca- 
milla in heart-rendine tones of grief. Then the 
quotation. ^‘Non ho che te nelV anima. Camilla ! — 
Camilla! . . .” He called to her as if she must surely 
hear and come to him. . . . Then he burst into a 
passion of weeping, as if the very sound of her name 
had penetrated across his dazed senses and shown 
him beyond doubt his bitter and ultimate loss of her. 


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209 


John was so deeply plunged in contemplation of 
Lorimer that he did not hear the door open and a 
footstep come softly across the room. Dr. Stokes 
came and stood beside him, and made him suddenly 
aware of his presence by saying: 

“That must have been a pretty bad wound on the 
left forearm. He stooped over Lorimer and pushed 
the sleeve a little higher up the arm. The cicatrice 
was still red, and showed prominently against the 
pallor of the flesh. “Bayonet?” he inquired, turn- 
ing to John. 

“No. A sword.” 

“A very vindictive blow, and given at close range, 
too. Hand to hand fighting in the trenches, I 
suppose. This is the work of a very powerful 
man — I wonder he didn’t kill him while he was about 
it, for Mr Lorimer must have been completely dis- 
abled by a wound like that.” 

He bent down again, examining the arm more 
closely. Then he gave a short laugh. “Must have 
nine lives, this friend of yours,” he said. “We 
mustn’t let him slip through our fingers now.” 


CHAPTER XX 

J ANET passed a quiet night and by the following 
morning seemed to have perfectly recovered from 
the effects of the attack. She did not refer to the 
events that had immediately preceded it, and 
whether she remembered them or not, it was dif- 
ficult to tell. John was beginning to doubt whether 
that habitual reticence of hers proceeded from an 
inability to reconstruct the emotion that was pri- 
marily responsible for the attack. He believed that 


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she remembered far more than they ever imagined, 
and that prudence induced silence. 

He noticed, though, that morning, that she shrank 
a little from her mother, as if nebulously aware 
that there had been some kind of scene between them 
before unconsciousness supervened. But she suf- 
fered Hodge’s ministrations without protest. The 
habit of submission to Hodge was of too long stand- 
ing; she had not the strength of will to resist it. 

“All that must be changed as soon as possible,” 
thought John. 

He visited her frequently. It was thought wiser, 
and indeed Dr. Stokes recommended, that she should 
remain in her room all day, not necessarily in bed 
but lying on the sofa. 

“If you read at all, it must be a very light novel,” 
he said. 

John wondered if such a thing could be found in 
the house. But Janet did not seem anxious to read. 
She liked lying there and looking out upon the lake, 
that was dimly veiled by a golden autumn mist. 
The mountains were clear that morning, and the row 
of jagged fangs forming the Eastern Pikes were 
nobly silhouetted against a pale blue sky. 

She always smiled at John when he came into the 
room. His presence gave her a sense of immense 
security. 

Janet indeed gave no cause for anxiety. Her 
pulse was a little feeble and she showed symptoms 
of exhaustion, but on the other hand she was much 
less tearful than was usual with her, especially 
after such a prolonged period of unconsciousness. 
But it was for Lorimer that grave anxiety was felt. 
He was very ill indeed; pneumonia had declared it- 
self, and his temperature had risen during the 
night. John had been sitting up with him all night, 
and had only relinquished his watch about eight 
o’clock when the two nurses arrived from Kenstone. 


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2II 


John had not slept all night. Lorimer awoke 
from time to time, generally asking for something 
to drink. He slept fitfully, but seemed aware, on 
awakening, of his friend’s presence. 

And as he watched him through those silent 
hours, John’s thoughts were many and conflicting. 
They centered around Janet and Lorimer. The 
situation thus created had become fraught with dif- 
ficulty and even peril. But he had no hard thoughts 
of Denis; he even experienced something of tender- 
ness towards this man who was now so completely 
dependent upon him. It was the tenderness that a 
nurse must feel for a patient, as for something help- 
less placed in her hands», whom she must aid in the 
grave conflict between life and death. John won- 
dered if anyone placed in such a position could feel 
quite indifferent as to the issue ; he felt as if the very 
participation in that conflict must inevitably create 
a subtle link of sympathy and even of affec- 
tion between the watcher and the watched. It 
would be impossible to be quite detached, as if one 
had no concern in the result. And while Lorimer 
was thus dependent upon him, he could not even feel 
a great measure of distrust in him. He felt more 
as if he had been watching an erring child for whose 
conduct he was in some way responsible. And he 
was conscious of but one desire — that this soul 
should not traverse the valley of the shadow of 
death unshriven and unabsolved. ... It was in a 
state of sin, of rebellion. He had tried in Florence 
to bring Lorimer back to the practice of his religion, 
and he had failed. Denis, despite his acute suffer- 
ings, was in too hard and bitter a mood then to 
listen to him. He was angry with all the world. 
He had lost the woman he loved, and lost her irre- 
vocably; he had been cruelly wounded so that he 
would be maimed for life. But that mood had 
passed. Day after day since his arrival at the 


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Grange, he had been present at the Holy Sacrifice. 
. . . He had spoken of the Catholic religion with 
love and understanding. Perhaps he had some great 
sin on his mind — a sin he shrank from confessing. 
Men would sometimes hold back for many years 
for a reason of that kind. They were sometimes, 
indeed, only induced to go to confession by the fear 
of approaching death. ... 

During the night John rose several times and 
then knelt by the bedside, his lips moving in prayer. 
He prayed for Denis, with almost passionate 
supplication. He prayed that he might not die 
with a grave sin still unconfessed upon his con- 
science. 

The prospect of Lorimer’s death could not in 
itself give him pain; it was only the manner of it 
that could conceivably wound him. There was lit- 
erally no one to mourn him, unless Janet cared suf- 
ficiently to undertake that unwise part. No one 
would really be the poorer for his exit from the 
stage. In many ways death — a holy death — would 
solve a complicated problem. For Lorimer had 
come to the end of what little money he had, and 
his future prospects were the reverse of bright. 
He possessed at present neither the health nor the 
stability of character to earn his living. Such 
chances as he had had in life he had deliberately 
spoilt by his own foolishness — or wickedness. 
Once upon a time hard work would have been his 
salvation. Now John feared he had not the 
strength for it. His constitution had suffered in the 
War, and later events had contributed still further 
to impair it. He had looked such a wreck that 
evening at Euston — like a man who had come to 
the end of his tether and was beginning to be indif- 
ferent about the future. John was glad he had 
come across him then. Of course it hadn’t turned 
out as he had expected and hoped. Denis had 


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213 


proved almost as disturbing a figure at the Grange 
as he had done at Villa Ascarelli. He was not only 
the herald of storm, he was storm itself. But if he 
made others suffer, he also suffered keenly himself. 
And then the man was capable of heroism; he had 
given proof of it in his plucky rescue of the drowning 
boy. He had shown courage, too, in accepting the 
challenge of a skilled and practised swordsman like 
Pio Ascarelli. John glanced down at the maimed 
left arm. After all, it was not such an inglorious 
wound as it seemed at first sight. Dr. Stokes had 
been right when he judged it to be the work of a 
formidable and powerful enemy. 

John was relieved when the doctor appeared upon 
the scene, to be followed soon afterwards by the 
two nurses, calm competent young women, who took 
immediate charge of the patient and gave and ex- 
ecuted orders with mechanical precision. 

Lorimer was still asleep. From time to time he 
moaned and coughed a little. But he had ceased 
to wander in his mind; the dreadful delirious voice 
had ceased its frenzied utterances. 

John went up to the attic-chapel to say Mass. 

There was considerable confusion at the Grange 
all through the day, although no echo of it was per- 
mitted to reach Janet’s room. To begin with, Lor- 
imer’s condition grew perceptibly worse. Dr. 
Stokes came in several times during the day and 
once spoke of a consultation. 

“If he’s got any relations, I should think they’d 
better come,” he told John. 

“I don’t think he has any. No near ones at 
least. I’ve never heard him talk about them.” ^ 

“So much the better,” said the doctor, looking 
relieved. “It’s touch and go with him, as 1 sup- 
pose you can see for yourself. I don’t know if 
Mrs. Ponsford realizes it.” 

“I shall tell her,” said John, “but I think it would 


214 AVERAGE CABINS 

be advisable not to say anything to my sister at 
present.” 

“I wanted to speak to you about your sister, 
Father,” he said in a more guarded tone. “That 
woman who looks after her — Hodge, don’t they call 
her? — isn’t the right kind of person to be with her. 
I should imagine she terrorizes her, and that’s the 
worst possible thing for her. You ought to get 
her a younger and more cheerful companion.” 

“I’m going to see about it as soon as possible. 
To tell you the truth, I’d hoped to take her 
away for a bit, but of course now I can’t leave 
Lorimer.” 

“No, of course not. Unfortunate business,” 
sympathized the doctor. “However, from the look 
of him I don’t think it will be very long . . . He’s 
weak and run down. Too thin for a man of his 
height and size. When did he get that cut on the 
arm?” 

“Last . . . last April.” 

Dr Stokes raised his eyebrows. “So recently as 
that? Well, he must have lost a great deal of 
blood. And the shock to the system . . . Wans- 
water will be able to claim another victim.” 

He hurried away, promising to return later. 
John went to his sister’s room. He didn’t want 
her to suspect the real state of affairs. She was 
lying on the sofa as he came in, looking out of the 
window. An open book was on her knee. 

It struck him that he had never seen her look 
so calm, so normal. 

“How is he this afternoon, Johnny?” 

“There’s not much difference since the morning, 
Jane dear,” he answered. 

Janet was obviously dissatisfied with his answer. 

“Has Dr. Stokes seen him again?” 

“Yes — he’s just gone. By the way, Stokes wants 
you to have some one with you instead of Hodge 


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215 

— a younger and more cheerful companion. You’d 
like that, wouldn’t you, Jane?” 

She smiled at first, and then a shadow came over 
her face. “It’s no good, Johnny; Mamma would 
never allow it. I’ve heard her say so often that 
Hodge is the only person who can keep me in order.” 

“But, my dear — that’s just it. You’re not to be 
kept in order. All this fuss and fidgeting is' bad 
for you. We want you to be more free.” 

She shook her head. “It’s no use trying, Johnny. 
Tell me more about Mr. Lo rimer. Do you think 
I shall be allowed to go in and see him?” 

“Not to-day, certainly. He isn’t to have any 
visitors. The nurses don’t seem to like my going 
in, but then it’s different for me. A priest is ac- 
customed to visiting the sick — it’s part of his duty.” 

“I wish I could have helped to nurse him,” said 
Janet. 

“Oh, you- wouldn’t be strong enough. Besides, 
these nurses are highly trained — he needs skilled 
nursing.” 

“I should like just to go in and see him. Do you 
think Dr. Stokes would let me — if I promised not 
to say a word to him?” 

John shook his head. “Not to-day. Certainly 
not to-day.” 

“I believe you’re hiding something from me,” 
said Janet, in a suddenly agitated tone. “Is he 
so much worse ? Does Dr. Stokes think he’s going 
to die?” She fixed her eyes entreatingly upon her 
brother’s face. 

“He thinks he’s very ill — he did not say there 
was immediate danger,” said John. After all, was 
it not better to be frank and truthful with her? 
There was always the fear that emotion might bring 
on another attack of her malady, and yet he felt 
that it would be wrong to ketp her altogether in the 
dark. 


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“Do you mean that he may die?” she asked, 
large-eyed and trembling. 

“Indeed I hope^ — I pray — that he isn’t going to 
die.” 

“You must pray for him, Johnny. You must 
offer Mass for his recovery.” Her tone was urgent. 
She stretched out her hand and touched his. 
“Promise!” 

“Yes — ^yes — Jane dear — ” he assured her. 

She lay back apparently satisfied. There was a 
little pink flush in her cheeks to bear witness to the 
violence of her emotion. 

“He must get better — for my sake, Johnny.” 

“For your sake?” He could hardly believe that 
he had heard aright. 

“Yes. Haven’t you seen — haven’t you guessed 
— how dear he is to me? He must get better, be- 
cause I love him — I love him ... so very 
much. . . .” 

It struck him that the confession had been a re- 
lief to her. She looked much calmer now. 

“When I saw him kneeling beside Jimmy, I real- 
ized how much I loved him ” 

Two tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. 

“It would be terrible to lose him so soon — so 
very soon . . . just at the beginning.” 

“But, Jane darling, you must remember that 
Denis is ever so much younger than you are. He 
has probably never thought about you in that kind 
of way. He’s a young man with his career to make 
in the world.” 

She was unconvinced. “He has thought about 
me, Johnny. No one has ever spoken to me so 
kindly before.” 

“But, my dear — ” he said aghast, “you must try 
and conquer this love. Denis isn’t in a position to 
marry, even if he did care for you. It’s his way to 
be kind and gentle to people — it doesn’t mean any- 


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217 


thing.” H*e wondered if it would be wise to tell 
her somethiner of Lorimer’s love for Camilla Asca- 
relli, but judged that it would be a breach of con- 
fidence. 

“I believe he cares. . . . I’ve felt that he wanted 
to talk to me, but Mamma prevented our meeting. 
Mamma doesn’t like him.” 

‘‘You mustn’t think of him, Jane, except as a man 
who once spent a few weeks here.” 

“I shall think of him as splendid and brave and 
unselfish ... all my life !” 

There was a little thrill in her voice, and her eyes 
shone. 

It was dreadful to John to learn beyond a shadow 
of doubt that she cared for Lorimer, and even de- 
luded herself with the belief that her love was in 
some measure reciprocated. It was impossible to 
ignore it any more, and the separation would be 
doubly hard to accomplish if Denis should pull 
through. When, if ever, he got better, it would not 
be possible to prevent Janet from seeing him fre- 
quently during his convalescence. John doubted if 
she would consent to leave the Grange, even to enjoy 
something of that promised freedom. She would 
wish to remain near him. 

“You mustn’t be angry with me, Johnny,” she 
continued. “I couldn’t help caring for him, you 
know — it all came so suddenly. Mamma found out 
about it very soon — it’s so difficult to hide anything 
from her and Hodge — I don’t remember what she 
said, but it was rather cruel. Something about send- 
ing him away as soon as possible — she doesn’t like 
him, you know.” Her brow puckered; she seemed 
to be searching her memory for those forgotten 
phrases that had left a wound upon her, although 
she could not accurately remember them. “It 
wouldn’t matter his being poor either, for I’ve got 
plenty.” 


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So she had considered the matter even in its 
financial aspect. 

“Does he know that? I should like him to 
know. . . .” 

“But it isn’t a question of money.” 

“Oh, you’re thinking I’m too old and plain — that 
he couldn’t care about me? That thought made me 
unhappy at first — made me wish I was more like 
Violet. People wanted to marry Violet when she 
was older than I am now — Pamela told me so. But 
I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, and I know 
that if you care for a person it doesn’t matter if 
they’re old or . . . not good-looking. I shouldn’t 
mind how ugly and old he was — he would still be 
my dear, dear Denis. . . .” 

As she uttered his name, her whole face softened, 
and one could trace in it the long-vanished comeli- 
ness of youth. Her love endowed her with a cer- 
tain wistful beauty. 

My dear, dear Denis . . . The words rang in his 
head. 

“So you won’t help Mamma to keep us apart — 
to prevent us from seeing each other directly he’s 
well enough? . . .” There was agony in her tone. 
For the first time perhaps, she realized how com- 
plete was her mother’s power over her. Her mother 
. . . aided by Hodge .... 

John was saying to himself: “He can’t live — he 
won’t live. If he does, I shall never be able to 
keep them apart, unless he’ll consent to go away 
and leave her alone.” Then there was always the 
possibility that Lorimer would ask her to marry 
him. Not that he loved her, for his mind and heart 
were still obviously filled with the beautiful image 
of Donna Camilla. But he had come to the end 
of his resources; he needed money, and money was 
just what Janet was able to lavish upon him. It 


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219 


would be easy enough for him to persuade Janet that 
he loved her; indeed she half believed it already. 

“My dear, I don’t know what to say to you ex- 
cept to beg you not to think of him any more.” 

Janet shook her head. 

“I think of nothing else ... all the time I’m 
lying here. That’s why I didn’t want to read. 
My thoughts are full — so full — of Denis. . . .” 

She smiled to herself in a furtive secretive way. 
“When he’s better I must see him — I don’t care 
if Mamma and Hodge do try to prevent me. Denis 
makes me feel stronger. . . .” 

“But, Jane dear, when he’s better he will have to 
leave the Grange. I shall have to go away myself 
and he must come with me.” 

“But he hasn’t any money — he’ll starve. He 
ought to stay here till he’s strong again.” 

“I shall see that he doesn’t starve. And when 
he’s well again I hope he’ll try to find some work. 
Perhaps in the colonies.” 

“He won’t be fit to work for ever so long. And 
what could he do in the colonies, with only one 
arm he can use?” 

“You mustn’t worry about him. I shall see that 
he has all he wants.” 

“But you’ll be going back to Rome?” 

“I’m not so sure that I’m going back there now. 
My plans have rather changed. But I’ll tell you 
about them another time. At any rate, I can 
promise you that I shan’t forget Denis.” His tone 
was purposely bracing and cheerful, but it carried no 
conviction to her ears. 

“I could give you some of my money for him, 
Johnny. Only you mustn’t tell him where it comes 
from.” She made the suggestion timidly, watch- 
ing its effect upon him. 

“No, no, dear, you mustn’t think of such a thing.” 


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“Oh, Johnny, it seems so hard that Fm not al- 
lowed to do anything for him!” 

“Does it? But that’s often the way; we can’t 
help those we love the most.” He bent over her 
and kissed her forehead. “I must go down to 
Mother now — she’s been alone too much to-day.” 

“But you musn’t tell her, Johnny! You mustn’t 
repeat anything Fve said to you.” There was a 
kind of terror in her eyes. 

“Of course I won’t. You might trust me.” 

He went out of the room. Her confession of 
love for Lorimer had touched him ; there was some- 
thing so selfless about it. But that she should love 
that poor wastrel ! . . . And then he reminded him- 
self of Lorimer’s charm, that had attracted far more 
sophisticated women than herself; his physical 
beauty, his kindly gentleness of manner — all those 
personal attributes to which Janet had so swiftly al- 
most unconsciously succumbed. Many women had 
loved him, as John knew from Denis’s own admis- 
sions; some had tired of him, of his instability of 
purpose SO imperfectly concealed beneath the sur- 
face glitter; of others he had wearied. But that 
affair with Donna Camilla had, as John knew, gone 
deep. Even during his visit to the Grange he had 
seen him plunged in a gloomy {mssionate dejection. 
He had suffered heart and soul, and his maimed 
arm was in a sense the symbol of those interior 
sufferings. His pride, too, had suffered hurt; he 
had been humbled to the dust by Pio Ascarelli. 
And all this had only served to increase his obstinate 
rebellion — to set him further from the contrition 
that his Church demanded of him. John had de- 
tected signs at times of struggling; he had believed 
himself to be within an ace of victory. But it 
had never seemed to him that the right moment 
for speech had come. It was a delicate dangerous 
thing to interfere with souls, lest they should suffer 


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complete estrangement. So he had done what he 
could for the man’s body, had seen that it was 
housed and clothed and fed. But now he had to 
face the fact that perhaps the sands of Denis’s life 
were running low, and that delay would be the most 
dangerous thing of all. 

To repent . . . and die . . . comforted and sus- 
tained by the Rites of Holy Church. That to John 
would have been the perfect solution. But to live 
and marry Janet! He sickened at the thought. 
Janet was so fragile, so utterly innocent in her 
outlook, that she would prove a helpless victim in 
his hands. Lorimer would spend her money and 
then weary of her. He would break her heart — 
her most trusting and loving heart. At all costs 
such a marriage must be prevented. 


CHAPTER XXI 

A WEEK had passed, and Lorimer’s condition 
had become steadily though slowly worse. He 
made little struggle; a settled weakness had come 
upon him. He lay there quiescent and obedient, 
asking for nothing, expressing no wishes. He had 
not even asked to see Janet again. When John 
approached him, a faint smile of pleasure came over 
his face. But it quickly passed. His eyes were 
often closed ; he seemed to be sleeping. There were 
nights when his cough racked him, and then a more 
pronounced weakness and lassitude were apparent. 
The change was not always very perceptible, but the 
decline in strength was sure and indis{)utable. 

Dr. Stokes did not say much, but it was easy to 
gather that he had little hope. 

The evening had set in, wild and stormy. Nar- 
row white lines of foam were visible on the darken- 


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ing wind-tormented waters of the lake. Ragged 
clouds drifted like tattered garments about the fan- 
tastic summits of the Eastern Pikes. From the 
windows of the Grange could be heard the angry 
hiss of the water as the little waves beat against 
the landing-stage. Great gusts of wind and rain 
attacked the old house and the trees that stood pro- 
tectively around it. It seemed to John as if the 
very fells were lifting up their heads to greet and 
combat the storm. 

He was seldom away from Lorimer’s room for 
long. The nurses resented his continual presence 
at first, but his quiet purposeful manner dominated 
their opposition. He was waiting, and still Lor- 
imer gave no sign. But to-night as he stood there, 
watching the storm and listening to its wild music, 
a voice from the bed called to him. 

“John . . said the voice, feeble and yet urgent. 

The priest drew near. 

“John, send those women away. I want to say 
something to you.” 

The sentences came in short gasps, as if he 
scarcely had breath to speak. 

John whispered a few words to the nurse, who 
seemed reluctant to leave her charge. But after 
a moment’s struggle she withdrew and the two men 
were left alone. Outside, the wind shrieked and 
moaned; to-night it seemed to possess many voices. 

“John — is there a priest anywhere near that you 
could send for? If there is . . .” 

“I’m afraid not within many miles, and on such 
a night! — you can hear the storm, can’t you, Denis? 
— he couldn’t be here for many hours. If you want 
to make your confession I’ve got faculties, you know. 

. . . I can hear it, if you’ll put up with me.” 

“No, no . . . not you,” said Lorimer. 

“Dear Denis, you must think of me as a priest, 
not as a friend or even as another man. And I’m 


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223 


sure it would be advisable for you to make your 
confession.” 

A faint flush came into the haggard pallid cheeks. 

“You’d never speak to me again,” he murmured. 

John came a little nearer. 

“Denis — ^Denis, don’t let the fact of our friend- 
ship prevent you from making your peace with Al- 
mighty God. You know that all you say will be 
under the seal of the confessional — I may never 
speak of it even to you again — I may not even de- 
liberately think of it. And in any case you know 
that nothing you can tell me will make the slightest 
difference to our friendship. Don’t delay — ” 
There was pleading in his voice. 

“Then I’m going to die?” said Lorimer. His 
great hollow eyes, too large now for his wasted face, 
were fixed upon John. 

“You’re in God’s hands, Denis. But I think I 
ought to tell you that there is danger . . . you’ve 
been losing ground all day. If I were to send for 
some one else, he might not get here in time.” 

The old fighting spirit in Denis, something un- 
conquerable and indomitable in him, seemed to brace 
his nerves to receive the information calmly. A 
change came over his face, a delicate stiffening of the 
features. Life’s last and greatest conflict was per- 
haps close at hand. Whatever his faults, he had 
been at least a brave soldier ; he had shown coolness 
and indifference in the hour of danger; the scene 
in the Umbrian woods at dawn, the plucky rescue 
of Jimmy Nicholls from the black depths of Wans- 
water, had proved the man’s mettle. And it was not 
likely that he would show the white feather 
now. ... 

“Well, then, John, I’m afraid there’s no choice. 
It’s hard luck . . . you’re the only friend I’ve got 
in the world.” 

“Put that out of your mind. Think of me only 


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as a priest, Denis, who can give you what only a 
priest can give.’’ 

He left the room for a moment with a strange 
glow of thankfulness in his heart. The supreme 
moment had come, and he felt that his whole action 
in bringing Denis to Wanswater, in caring for him 
and watching over him, was amply justified. He 
could give him those spiritual girts which his office 
as a priest empowered him to bestow. When he 
came back into the sick-room, he was wearing a 
white cotta with a stole thrown over his shoulders. 
He sat down by the bedside, murmuring the words 
of the preliminary blessing. 

**Since my last confession about six years ugOy 
I accuse myself . . 

So he had passed through the long years of War in 
imminent almost daily peril of death unshriven and 
unabsolved. A great sin will often plunge a soul 
into deep rebellion that shuts out fear. And with 
Denis there had been other forces at work; his 
pride shrank from the deliberate revelation, even in 
the confessional, of his own deep dishonor. So 
for six years — such years too — he had lived apart 
from all the consolations of the Church. Then 
active rebellion gave place to carelessness and in- 
difference; he had allowed conditions to crystallize; 
a prodigal son, he had wandered very far from his 
Father’s House. 

“You see, I didn’t care to go to confession after 
what happened at Sledwick,” continued the feeble 
voice. “Farewether forgave me — he let me off be- 
cause the War had broken out, and he wanted to 
give me a chance to make good. He treated me 
as a son, though I think the whole thing had broken 
his heart. When I came back on leave for the 
first time, I heard that he was dead. ... I had em- 
bezzled a large sum of his money — he trusted me 
completely. . . . I’d debts . . . and those large sums 


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225 


. . . passing through my hands ... I took a little 
at first ... it wasn’t discovered, and that encour- 
aged me to go on. Then one day he found it out 
by chance ... I shall never forget it — the way he 
spoke to me. . . . He said he’d hush it up, but I must 
go away — he’d like me to enlist — 1' should be more 
use fighting for my country than shut up in prison. 
He wanted me to have another chance. Angus 
Ferringham must have found out something — per- 
haps the papers weren’t all destroyed — I was pretty 
careless when I discovered how easy it was. Angus 
must have told Pio that the man he’d treated as 
a friend, the man who wanted to marry his sister, 
was nothing better than a common thief.” 

So the recital went on without any effort to ex- 
tenuate his own action, a clear, plain unvarnished 
story of criminal dishonor. John, listening, felt his 
heart sink. Those words rang in his head: ^^The 
man who wanted to marry his sister was nothing 
better than a common thief. And side by side, in 
ghastly juxtaposition, Janet’s passionate words 
seemed to range themselves: ^^Haven*t you seen — 
havenU you guessed — how dear he is to mef . . . 
He must get better because I love him. . . 

Lorimer went on, speaking rapidly, as if aware 
of the danger of delay. John caught glimpses of 
the reckless and dissipated life that had followed 
his recovery from Pio’s wound. Separated from 
the woman he loved, just at the moment when he 
had reasonably believed his love to be returned; 
maimed, suffering, and hopeless and almost friend- 
less, he had plunged into yet deeper and darker 
waters, squandering too the last remnants of his 
tiny fortune. He was a pitiable wreck, derelict 
and abandoned, but flung upon a friendly shore just, 
as it seemed, before the end. And at last con- 
trition had come. . . . 

John’s eyes were full of tears as he pronounced 


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the beautiful words of absolution that fell upon 
Lorimer’s ears and heart with their lovely grace of 
healing. The sin purged, even though red as 
scarlet; the soul washed white from its many stains. 
... It was true that God’s greatest act of mercy 
to man was the bestowal of the Sacrament of Pen- 
ance. 

“I meant to keep straight, John, to justify Fare- 
wether’s action in letting me off. . . . But it was this 
Italian business — this inhuman vendetta — this driv- 
ing me out, a marked, maimed man — that seemed 
to hurl me back into the abyss. Yet it was hell — 
black hell to me. . . 

He sank back exhausted. The priest adminis- 
tered Extreme Unction, and then knelt down by his 
side and prayed. When he looked at Lorimer 
again, he saw that tears were glistening on the 
black lashes. -But the face was very calm and peace- 
ful, despite its haggard wasted look. 

He rose to his feet again as Dr. Stokes and the 
nurse entered the room. 

In his heart was a great thankfulness, shadowed 
by a great fear. For at last he realized beyond 
all doubt what sort of man this was upon whom 
Janet had bestowed the starved and pent-up affection 
of a whole lifetime. He was no fit husband for 
her. And John’s hands were tied; his voice was 
arbitrarily silenced; he could never put out a finger 
to save Janet from her fate, to separate them — if 
Lorimer lived . . . 

If Lorimer lived . . . 

He went out of the room and climbed the stairs 
to his own. But he paused as he passed the window, 
and looked out into the deepening twilight. It was 
nearly dark now, and the boughs of some trees that 
were grouped near the house were slightly illumi- 
nated from the light within, and lifted themselves 
against a black starless sky in moving, bending sil- 


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227 


houette. He could hear the swish of the little 
waves as Wanswater, beaten to fury by the wind, 
broke against the banks and wooden landing-stage 
in futile revolt. The wind whistled sharply among 
the dried hard stalks of the reeds, sometimes snap- 
ping them roughly in two, for the early frosts had 
made them brittle. It was a wild night, with the 
wind careering madly like a fierce, restless, uncon- 
querable spirit across fell and dale and mere. The 
air was full of its strange fantastic music, sustained, 
symphonic. . . . 

The storm reminded John of the fierce onslaught 
of battle. Earth and Heaven seemed locked in a 
titanic conflict. It was a night when pigmy man 
could only watch and wonder at the wild adventure 
enacted before him. 

As he paused there for a moment, John heard a 
light footstep near him. Looking round he saw 
Janet; she came up close to him and slipped her 
hand in his. 

“What a night! We haven’t had a storm like 
this for years.” 

They stood there, side by side, listening to the 
voices of that crying wind. 

They were both thinking of Lorimer. Suddenly 
Janet said: 

“Will it be to-night, do you think, Johnny?” 

Her throat and lips were so dry she could hardly 
utter the words. She looked up into his face with 
terror-stricken eyes. It seemed to her that the 
wild storm that raged without was the herald of 
some dire misfortune, some unprecedented calam- 
ity .. . 

John knew that she referred to Lorimer’s death. 

“No, dear, I don’t think so. There’s no im- 
provement, but there’s no sign of collapse.” 

“Then there’s hope?” she asked eagerly. 

“There’s always hope, dear Jane.” 


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“You must pray. You are praying, aren’t you? 
. . . Praying with, all your strength and might that 
he may get better!” 

“Janet — we oughtn’t to pray like that. We must 
pray that God’s Holy Will may be done . . . and 
that we may have strength to accept and bear all that 
He may send.” 

“That’s all very well for a priest . . . But I 
couldn’t prav like that. I want him to live. . . 
Her white face had a tortured look. 

“Dear Janet,” he murmured pitifully. 

“Oh, you must pray for him,” she repeated, pas- 
sionately. “Surely a priest’s prayers are the most 
likely to be heard. You’ve made such sacrifice of 
everything — you’ve given up all you had to God . . . 
He must hear your prayers . . . more than 
mine. . . .” 

“Janet, life and death are in His hands. We 
must submit — obey — without question. You must 
learn that, if you wish to become a Catholic.” 

“I can’t bear it if he dies. It’ll be as if the 
world were in darkness — the world he made so full 
of lovely light. ...” 

“Janet, you’ve got to be brave over this. And 
you’ve known him such a little while. It’s barely 
three weeks since I brought him here. And you’ve 
seen very little of him — it isn’t as if you knew him 
well — as if he were an old friend.” 

“But I loved him so quickly — almost from the 
first moment,” she whispered, “and no one had ever 
been so kind, so understanding, to me before. He 
was sorry, I could see, but he didn’t despise me for 
being weak and delicate and not like other women.” 

“Janet! Janet!” Mrs. Ponsford’s voice could 
be heard, calling from below. 

“Mamma’s calling — ^I must go. Oh, Johnny, that 
dreadful knitting . . . it’ll send me mad !” 

He touched her hand. 


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229 


“Be brave, dear Janet.” 

“I want to be alone ... to pray. Then I could 
bear it more bravely. . . 

“Go down to her, dear.” 

He watched her as she obeyed, going quietly down 
the stairs, her head raised, and her face set in almost 
stern lines. Something of its weakness, its wistful- 
ness, had left it, giving place to an expression that 
was almost determined. She was more of a woman 
now, less of a child. She was less timid, less help- 
less. Love had accomplished this miracle in her. 
Love for Lorimer. . . . 


CHAPTER XXII 

T here was a decided rally that night, and a 
few days later Dr. Stokes pronounced his 
opinion that if the progress continued, Lorimer 
would soon be out of danger. John communicated 
the good news to Janet as soon as possible. She 
received it quietly; she had been almost abnormally 
calm during those days of anxiety and suspense. 
John hardly knew what to think. He was glad for 
Janet’s sake, but he foresaw nothing but difficulty 
in the future. Even if it were true that Lorimer 
had any idea of marrying her — ^which he considered 
improbable — it was certain that Mrs. Ponsford 
would display the most violent opposition to such 
a project. John did not want to be cruel, but he 
felt in his heart that he must surely support any 
effort on the part of his mother to prevent such 
a calamity. 

A new era had already begun for Janet. She was 
allowed — even ordered — to spend much more time 
out of doors, and much less in sitting with her 


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mother in the library. The weather was often wet, 
but Dr. Stokes was of opinion that she might be 
out of doors a good deal notwithstanding the rain. 
Especially with this illness in the house. He knew 
nothing of Janet’s feelings towards Lorimer, but 
he felt that the state of suspense and anxiety that 
prevailed at the Grange was bad for her, and wished 
her to get away from it as much as possible. Mrs. 
Ponsford acquiesced. She looked forward to the 
time when John would take his friend — happily 
cured — away from Wanswater, and the household 
should resume its normal routine. There would be 
no further talk of more “freedom” for Janet then. 
Hodge would continue to look after her, and she 
herself would support Hodge’s authority, yet re- 
strain her from an undue tyranny; — a little disci- 
pline was of course necessary. It would be needless 
to say that Mrs. Ponsford was still perfectly igno- 
rant of the plans that were maturing in John’s head 
concerning Janet’s future. Had she known of them, 
her peace of mind would have been seriously 
affected. 

To think that any one should know better than 
she did as to the proper treatment for her delicate 
daughter ! . . . — Sir Oswald Metcalfe . . . But 

Dr. Stokes was too young to remember that great 
man; the name had obviously conveyed nothing to 
him. Young people were always for changes, and 
in her opinion nearly all changes were for the worse. 
She had firm belief in the comforting assurance that 
John would soon take his friend away, and then she 
need not be troubled any more with that ignorant 
young doctor’s presence in the house. 

The crisis which John had dreaded ever since 
Lorimer had been pronounced on the mend, was 
precipitated, not by Janet, but by the sick man him- 
self. 


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231 

^‘Do you ever see Miss Ponsford?” he inquired of 
the nurse one afternoon. 

“Oh, yes — I often meet her on the stairs and 
landing. ^ She is always very anxious to hear news 
of you — if youVe slept well.” 

“I should like to see her. Tell her to come up 
if she’s feeling well enough.” 

Nurse Roberts went downstairs and on her way 
to the library she met John. 

“How’s your patient this afternoon, Nurse?” 

“Oh, he’s weak but quite cheerful. He’s asked to 
see Miss Ponsford, and I was just going to fetch her.” 

“You’re sure he asked for her?” 

“Quite sure. Father.” She had a very assured 
manner that even impressed Mrs. Ponsford during 
their rare conversations. 

“My sister isn’t very strong — ” John began. He 
was half afraid of that sudden excitement for Janet. 
And then she had not seen Lorimer since that first 
day of his illness; she had no conception how greatly 
altered he was. 

The nurse smiled. “Oh, this isn’t going to hurt 
her.” 

“Well, don’t let her stay too long with him. 
And I’d rather she didn’t go too often — the fact is, 
any excitement’s bad for her.” 

“Very well. Father. But just now we must think 
exclusively of Mr. Lorimer — it would be bad for 
him to be thwarted.” 

“You’ll find my sister in her own room. She’s not 
in the library now,” said John. 

He watched the nurse as she went quickly upstairs. 
He must try and get Janet safely away from Wans- 
water before that long convalescence began, when, 
if she were still at home, she would doubtless see 
Lorimer day by day, and perhaps learn to love him 
with a deeper and more permanent love. 




AVmAGE CABINS 


“Miss Ponsford, could you come upstairs for a 
few mmutes ? Mr. Lorimer is asking for you.” 

Janet sprang up from her sofa. She had been 
reading a novel. Dr. Stokes had recommended 
light reading, and John had thoughtfully sent for 
a box of books from Mudie’s. She had been deep 
in such a wonderful story, which had seemed quite 
real to her, when Nurse Roberts’s voice had broken 
in upon her. 

And then suddenly it seemed to her that her 
own poor little romance was more wonderful than 
anything she had ever read in novel or poem. 

“Really? Are you quite sure he wants to see 
me?” As she stood up she felt that her limbs were 
trembling a little; the summons so ardently desired 
had come at last very suddenly and without warn- 
ing. 

“Yes, but you must only stay a very few minutes 
for the first time. He hasn’t seen any visitors yet.” 

Janet gave a hasty glance at herself in the mirror 
and smoothed her straying hair back with her hands. 
Then she followed Nurse Roberts down the long 
passage until they reached Lorimer’s room. 

“You must be very careful. Miss Ponsford, not 
to say anything that’s at all likely to upset or 'dis- 
turb him.” 

“Pll be very careful,” said Janet. Now that the 
time had come she almost dreaded seeing him again. 
It would be so difficult to hide her overflowing thank- 
fulness at his recovery. 

“May I see him alone? He may have something 
to say to me.” 

“Yes. I shall come in when I think you’ve been 
there long enough. I’m afraid you’ll find him a 
good deal changed.” 

Janet’s hand shook as she opened the door. She 
was aware almost at once of Lorimer’s great eyes 


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glittering in his white and wasted face. Strange 
eyes that looked very bright, and larger than they 
used to be. As she drew near the bed, she saw that 
he was extraordinarily emaciated, as if he had been 
ill for a very long time. She found him incredibly 
changed, with scarcely any resemblance to the hand- 
some romantic-looking figure with whom she had 
so swiftly fallen in love. It even occurred to her 
to ask herself whether this love of hers for this 
worn wasted heroic being had not been an imaginary 
emotion. Then his voice fell upon her ears and 
she doubted no more. She had an impulse to take 
his hand in hers and raise it to her lips, and tell 
him that she loved him. . . . The impulse passed, 
and Janet stood there silent and secretly embar- 
rassed at the very boldness of her thoughts. 

“Dear Janet,” the voice was very soft — womanish 
in its softness as it had seemed to her at their first 
meeting, “you must get a chair and sit down. You 
look most horribly tired and exhausted. Has Hodge 
been bullying you?” 

Janet fetched a chair obediently, and sat down 
by his side. 

“Dr. Stokes doesn’t want me to be so much with 
Hodge,” she said; “he thinks I’m better left more 
alone. You can’t think what a relief it is!” 

“I’m sure it must be. Why, she treated you like 
a child.” 

“Yes, you must have thought it odd.” She saw 
now how humiliating had been that long tyranny. 
It hurt her to think that Lorimer should even know 
of it. 

“But you bore it like an angel,” said Lorimer 
smiling. “Any other woman would have rebelled 
long ago.” There was a little indignation in his 
tone. 

“Don’t talk about me,” said Janet; “I want to 


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hear all about you. I’ve wanted so to come — but 
they wouldn’t let you see any one.” 

“Well, I’m better,” he said, “but it’s been a nar- 
row shave, as perhaps John told you. I’m sure he 
thought he’d seen me safely off — shriven and all the 
rest of it. ... I believe he’s a little disappointed 
to find I’m still on his hands. But as a priest he’s 
had the time of his life!” 

“Oh, you mustn’t think he’s disappointed,” she 
said, taking the statement very seriously indeed. 
“He was praying for you — I know he was — and so 
was 'I !” 

Lorimer stretched out his right hand and took 
hers. 

“You were praying for me?” he said softly. 

“Yes, yes — ^I seemed to be praying nearly all day.” 

He bent his lips till they touched her hand. 
There was silence between them. They looked into 
each other’s eyes. 

“So you did care?” he said at last. 

“Yes,” she answered. She felt then that he had a 
a right to know what was in her heart. 

She looked quite beautiful then, he thought, with 
a tenderness in her voice and expression that was 
almost maternal. Lorimer was touched and vaguely 
alarmed. It is true that before his fatal plunge 
into the deep icy waters of the lake he had con- 
sidered the question of asking her to be his wife, but 
he had rejected it almost immediately, feeling cer- 
tain that such a project would be most rigorously 
opposed. He was quite aware that he found no 
favor with Mrs. Ponsford, and was aware too of 
the indisputable and unrelaxed authority she wielded 
over this delicate suffering daughter of hers. She 
would be certain to lay an unerring finger upon his 
motive which was, as he knew, a sordid one. He 
needed Janet’s money; therein lay the temptation. 
For Janet herself he had felt a profound pity com- 


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bined with a deep interest in her mysterious malady, 
which he considered had never received proper treat- 
ment. Now another element had entered into his 
feeling for her. It was the discovery of that pro- 
found sentiment of affection which she entertained 
towards himself. His words, “So you did care?” 
had elicited from her a simple affirmative. She did 
care, and in that moment of self-revelation she had 
not tried to hide the truth from him. There was 
something inherently childlike in her nature, a sim- 
plicity of outlook, a limpidity of vision that touched 
him deeply. 

Had he received that answer when he had been 
in full possession of health and strength, he would 
probably have taken Janet in his arms and spoken 
words of love to her, unmindful of the consequences. 
But the situation had only disclosed itself when he 
was too ill a man to do more than ever so slightly in- 
crease the pressure of his hand upon hers. In some 
dim way he was grateful to her. There was no one 
else in the world to care if he lived or died, and in en- 
visaging this fact he was untainted by self-pity. To 
most people the news of his death would have come 
as a relief. “Poor chap, hard luck, but he was never 
any good.” Yes, he could hear them saying those 
very words on receipt of the news. Pious people 
who cared for his soul would have prayed for 
him . . . John, for instance . . . John had been 
with him, tender and encouraging, in that dark mo- 
ment when he had felt himself drawing nearer and 
nearer to the gates of death. But this woman had 
honestly cared whether he lived or died, and had 
dared to tell him so. They were both in a sense 
outcast from their kind. And they had drifted to- 
gether like stray flotsam and jetsam flung by the ca- 
pricious waves of chance upon an alien beach. 

For a little while he lay there contentedly, with- 


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236 

out speaking, his hand clasping hers as if he were 
dinging to the one mortal thing which remained to 
cherish him in a world that had cast him out. It 
was a strange sentiment, not at all like the love that 
he had felt for Camilla Ascarelli, an emotion that 
had held much of both passion and romance. But 
on the other hand it would never give him those 
pangs which had followed that disastrous love. 
Janet would always love him, irrespective of the 
world’s opinion, the world’s disdain, the opposition 
of Mrs. Ponsford. 

He closed his eyes, and a sense of passive but 
very real well-being came over him. Janet, looking 
at him, thought that the pale composed face pos- 
sessed a statue-like beauty that belonged to death 
rather than to life. 

When he opened his eyes they met hers. She 
made no attempt to conceal from him the fact that 
she had been looking at him. 

“I’m SO glad you cared,” he said, with a slight 
smile. 

She did not speak. 

“You’re the only one in all the world who 
cared. . . .” 

His voice was slightly weaker; there was a per- 
ceptible tremor in it, suggestive of an emotion he 
was trying to control. 

“Am I?” she said. She gave him smile for smile. 

“Will you — will you — kiss me, Janet?” he said. 

She hesitated. But he put out his hand with a 
feeble gesture, and touched her face as if he would 
have drawn it towards his had he had the strength. 
She bent down and kissed him. Her face was 
pressed to his. She would have died joyfully then 
in the knowledge of Lorimer’s love. 

“Janet, when I’m better will you marry me?” 

“Yes,” she answered. 


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237 

“You must say, Z)^w?y . . . I want to hear 
you speak my name.” 

“Yes, Denis. . . 

“You do love me, Janet?” 

“Yes, Denis.” It never occurred to her that he 
should tell her also that he loved her. But his 
voice, his look, the touch of his lips, had assured her 
of that. Her face wore a serene contented look; it 
seemed to her that she had nothing now to ask of 
life since Denis loved her. What did John mean 
when he said that she could never marry him? For 
of course she was going to marry him, directly he 
was better. An ocean of happiness seemed to flow 
about her, encircling her with light. 

The door was softly opened and John entered 
the room. He came across and stood near the bed- 
side, and glanced from Lorimer to his sister. A 
faint misgiving took possession of him. Janet had 
stayed there longer than he had believed would be 
allowed for a first visit. But Nurse Roberts, know- 
ing she would not be wanted at present, had gone 
out for a few minutes into the garden to breathe a 
little fresh air. Thus fortune had favored them. 

“Janet dear, you’d better go now. You mustn’t 
tire Denis.” 

“I’m not tired, Johnny. I’ve liked having 
her. . . .” Lorimer put out his hand. “You 
must come again to-morrow,” he said smiling. 

“Yes,” she answered. 

She went out of the room. Would Denis py 
anything to John? Would he tell him something 
of what had just passed between them ? She hoped, 
even while she feared, that he might do so. She be- 
longed to Denis now; she was his promised wife, 
and sooner or later they must all know it, John and 
her mother . . . and Flodge. And then the others 
— the families of the great Ponsford clan, Violet 


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238 

Bradney and her young son. Sir Cosmo, Louisa and 
Algernon Dacreson, Margaret and Gerard Fortune, 
Stephen and Sara and Pamela ; Curtis and little Cur- 
tis (as he was always called) and Mrs Charles 
Firth, whom she could remember as a baby; Giles 
and his wife and their endless family in Devon- 
shire . . . they would all have to be told. Sara 
would certainly be kind about it, but the others? 
She had always had the feeling that Algernon 
Dacreson and Colonel Fortune were just a little 
ashamed of having a sister-in-law like herself. 
They never invited her to their houses. 

When the door had closed behind her, Lorimer 
said feebly: 

“John, old man, Tm very tired, but I want to tell 
you something.” 

“Yes, Denis?” 

“I have asked your sister to marry me. I don’t 
deserve it, but she loves me . . .” His voice 
trailed off into a weak whisper. 

John’s heart sank, but he said nothing. 

“You mustn’t try to come between us any more,” 
continued the weak voice from the bed. know 
you’ve done it for her sake . . . you were quite 
right to think I wasn’t worthy of her . . . But we 
love each other — we shall be married when I’m 
better. I’ll make her happy ... I have made her 
happy.” 

John was oddly speechless. Consternation and 
dismay filled his heart. But he told himself that 
Lorimer couldn’t recover. “He’s too ill — the least 
relapse and he’ll slip out of our hands.” 

It was horrible to stand there thinking these 
thoughts. But he could find no word of encourage- 
ment or svmpathy to offer. 

“You’ll give us your blessing, won’t you, John? 
You know too much about me to feel very pleased, 


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239 

Fm afraid, but 'I promise you to take care of her — 
to make her happy.” 

“I’m sure you will do your best, Denis. But 
Janet’s so much older than you, and she’s always 
been delicate. ... I don’t feel that she’ll make 
quite the right wife for you. You’re a young man 
still, with your way to make.” 

Lorimer, weary with the unusual emotion, lay 
back on the pillow with a very contented, peaceful 
expression upon his face. And as he looked at him 
John realized that, despite his extreme emaciation 
and the fact that his physical comeliness had suffered 
eclipse from this severe illness, there was still some- 
thing in him that could attract and fascinate. He 
had cast a spell over Janet . . . Janet, sad and 
plain, elderly, faded, so many years his senior. . . . 
She must have listened with something of a child’s 
eagerness to his words of love, and responded to 
them without fear or hesitation. John saw nothing 
but calamity for her in the future, whether the mar- 
riage took place or not. In the one case Lorimer 
would squander her money as he had squandered 
his own; he would weary of her, break her heart, 
and probably desert her. And if she did not marry 
him — if any one stepped in to separate them she 
would mourn that first and last love all her days. 
To lose him indeed would in all probability kill her. 

John blamed himself bitterly for having been in- 
strumental in bringing Lorimer to Wanswater. 
But for that fortuitous meeting at Euston, this suc- 
cession of disasters would never have occurred to 
disturb the ancient peace of the Grange. But he 
would as readily have envisaged the possibility of 
his mother’s falling in love with Lorimer as of 
Janet’s doing so. The pitiful folly of it all. . . . 

The nurse returned, calm, capable, preoccupied 
with her patient, as if nothing else in the world con- 


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cerned her. She laid her finger on his pulse, paused, 
nodded her head approvingly. 

“Doing very well indeed. Father,” she said to 
John. “I think the visit’s been a success.” 

John went away, but he avoided Janet’s room. 
He felt then as if he could not meet her trusting 
happy eyes.. She would want to know if Lorimer 
had revealed to him their mutual profession of love. 
She would perhaps wish to tell him about it herself ; 
she was ever eager to confide in him. And she 
would want to show him, too, how mistaken he had 
been in thinking that Lorimer could not care for 
her. 

John, aghast at the situation so clearly delineated, 
was uncertain as to his next step. To reveal the 
state of things to Mrs. Ponsford would be to plunge 
the whole house into dire confusion; she would try 
to put an end to the engagement, and reduce poor 
Janet to the last extremity of woe. And a scene of 
the kind would hurt Janet physically as well as 
mentally; it might even bring on another of her 
attacks. No, he must conceal the truth from his 
mother for as long as possible. He knew that Mrs. 
Ponsford would fight the project to the death, and 
where her youngest daughter was concerned she had 
never doffed any of her parental authority. She 
would exercise it to some purpose now, and it would 
certainly result in the swift banishment of Denis, 
ill or well. John felt that he must weigh the whole 
matter and resolve upon some plan of action. It 
was his own fault, he told himself again and again, 
for bringing Denis to Wanswater, knowing him to be 
a deliberate creator of dramatic situations. He 
could so easily have kept him elsewhere at his own 
expense. This scheme of surrounding him with 
kindness and comfort, in the hope that it would 
soften his defiant and rebellious attitude had been 
in one sense a complete success. But it was too per- 


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241 


ilous an experiment — a thing of costly consequences. 
And it promised to result in permanent suffering for 
poor Janet. 

She had confessed her love for Denis; she had 
promised to be his wife. They were evidently plan- 
ning a quiet wedding that should take place as 
soon as he was sufficiently recovered. There was 
of course, a hope that Janet might succeed in redeem- 
ing him, reforming him. But John put the flatter- 
ing thought aside. She was too weak and ineffect- 
ual a woman to influence a man like Lorimer in 
any sense permanently. She loved him, and she 
would probably love him blindly to the end, believing 
with childish confidence in the reality of his love for 
her. She had made of Denis an heroic creature of 
her own imagining, a fantastic figure before whom 
she could kneel in a kind of ecstatic adoration. 

Well, the mischief was done, and his own hands 
were tied; he could take no steps to influence his 
sister and entreat her to give up this marriage. He 
must bury in his heart all those things he had learned 
from Denis’s own lips on that night when he believed 
himself to be dying. He was bound by all that was 
most sacred never to divulge the terrible knowl- 
edge he had acquired. 

He must stand by and see Janet sacrificed. . . . 


CHAPTER XXIII 

I N the librarv Tohn found his mother sitting by 
the fire, placidly knitting and all unconscious of 
the situation which was so rapidlv developing under 
her roof. Indeed she had so far submitted to Dr. 
Stokes’ decision, that she no longer kept Janet under 
the perpetual surveillance of herself and Hodge. 


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Perhaps she reflected that there was no immediate 
necessity for doing so at the moment, since Lorimer, 
whose influence she secretly feared, was lying ill up- 
stairs and unable to move. 

Mrs Ponsford disliked illness. She had seldom 
been ill herself, except when her children had come 
into the world and then only for as short a time p 
possible. She had small sympathy for petty ail- 
ments, and indeed she had brought up her sons and 
daughters to regard illness as something of a crime, 
if not to be exactly punished, at least to be corrected 
by severe and nauseous remedies in the shape of 
draughts and powders of unpleasant aspect and un- 
palatable taste. Not for her the modern and sugar- 
coated and easily assimilated tabloid. These, she 
held, would never teach a child to avoid those im- 
prudences which resulted in chills and colds and in- 
ternal pains. She preferred the robust and deter- 
rent remedy, and it was to her everlasting regret 
that she had never been permitted to physic Janet 
in the way she considered would have been most 
beneficial. 

She looked up as John came into the room. 

“How is your friend?” she inquired sub-acidly. 

In her opinion Lorimer had capped all his other 
delinquencies by falling ill — and dangerously ill 
too — in her house. Two nurses too — modern 
young things who required the maximum of atten- 
tion and unlimited food and hot baths — such a thing 
was unheard of at the Grange. No one could tell 
how terribly the house had been upset, and she was 
certain that had she had less ancient and devoted 
servants, they would assuredly have given notice 
under the peculiar strain imposed upon them. 
Hodge was nearly run off her legs, and Watson 
had been complaining of rheumatism. . . . 

“The nurse says he^s doing very well,” said John. 
He sat down and watched with a kind of fascination 


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243 


the unceasing rapid activity of the shining pins, the 
gray wool, under the skilful control of her fingers. 

“I hope, then, he will soon be able to be moved. 
Doctors are so clever in these days about moving 
sick people. Motor-ambulances and all the rest of 
it. Why, Sara took Gilbert up to London from his 
school at Brighton, when he was suffering from ap- 
pendicitis, in a motor-ambulance, so that he might 
have the operation at home. I thought it was a risk 
myself, as well as a quite unnecessary expense.” 

“I don’t think Dr Stokes will consider Denis fit to 
be moved just yet, even in a motor-ambulance. 
Pneumonia is such a dangerous thing to have. . . .” 

“John, I really can’t have the house turned into 
a hospital much longer. The extra meals at all 
sorts of hours for these two spoilt young nurses 
are simply driving cook crazy! And he’s already 
been with us for more than a month, and Christ- 
mas will soon be here. I must insist upon having 
the house to ourselves for Christmas, indeed I 
hoped that Violet and Cosmo would come. I feel 
I’ve done quite enough for Mr. Lorimer, and now I 
must think of my own family.” 

Her soft mouth was set in unusually firm lines. 
One saw in her then the practical woman who had 
brought up a large brood of children with success, 
and had had only one failure among them all. 
She was accustomed to authority, indeed since the 
Dean’s death her decisions in her own house had 
been absolute, admitting of no appeal, and now at 
the age of seventy she was in no way more inclined 
to lay down the scepter. Advancing years had in- 
deed rather increased than diminished those auto- 
cratic qualities, and accentuated her confidence in 
her own indisputable superiority. 

“In that case I’ll try and make arrangements for 
him to go as soon as ever he’s fit to be moved,” said 
John quietly. After all, it was the best solution of 


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her difficulty, and Dr. Stokes must be the one to de- 
cide when the removal could take place without in- 
jury to the patient. There was an excellent nursing 
home at Kenstone where Denis could spend the first 
weeks of convalescence. ^ 

Mrs. Ponsford was appeased; she had expected 
further remonstrance from John. She said kindly: 

‘‘It’s quite spoilt your visit. We’ve seen so little 
of you. Of course I understand you’ve felt obliged 
to give up a great deal of your time to Mr. Lori- 
mer. I only hope he will show a proper grati- 
tude!” 

“Oh, he’s grateful enough, and I’m sure he’s most 
awfully sorry to have put you to so much inconven- 
ience. When does Violet talk of coming?” 

“She hasn’t decided anything yet. But it won’t 
be before the twenty-second of December.” 

Indeed Lady Bradney had shown a certain reluc- 
tance about coming at all, and Cosmo was bitterly 
opposed to the scheme. It was not yet certain 
whether he would prevail upon his mother to accept 
another invitation that promised more amusement 
in the shape of dancing, hunting and golf. 

John was a little relieved to find that there were 
other reasons for accelerating Lorimer’s departure — 
reasons that had no reference to Janet. The whole 
thing could be accomplished quite smoothly. Even 
Janet shouldn’t consider herself ill-used. She was 
very fond of Violet Bradney, who had a charming 
disposition and was always kind to her. She was 
her favorite sister, and John believed that Violet 
would give her sound yet kindly advice should she 
confide in her about Lorimer. Sara would have been 
even better, of course, but then it would have been 
quite useless to invite her to the Grange in the 
dead of winter. When she entered a house it was 
always as if a slightly boisterous but highly-per- 
fumed wind had passed through it, forcing open 


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245 


doors and windows, and penetrating into the dust- 
iest and “frowsiest” of cobwebby corners. Sara 
loved to demolish all the unnecessary barriers 
which a former generation had built for the pro- 
tection of their persons and still more for the pres- 
ervation of their accepted codes and shibboleths. 

Mrs. Ponsford shrank from that light destroying 
touch, just as she would have shrunk from a sudden 
chill draught of air, although she liked to think 
that Stephen had married such a wealthy intelligent 
woman. The house in Green Street was admirably 
appointed — she had stayed there a few years ago. 
The two children, Gilbert and Pamela, were strong, 
healthy and very clever. Sara frankly loved her 
money and enjoyed spending it; she wore delicious 
clothes and always looked charming. She made 
Stephen very happy though she had puzzled him a 
good deal at first. And indeed she was a slightly 
astonishing person. 

“When I think of poor Janet I want to shake your 
mother,” she had said once to Stephen and John. 
“I’m not sure that anyhow she doesn’t want a 
good shaking. ’’ 

Rank heresy! . . . Mrs. Ponsford’s position in 
her family was as stable as that of her royal contem- 
porary, Queen Victoria. Whatever she did and 
said was right in the eyes of her children. Sara 
was not sure that she herself would not have en- 
joyed such omnipotence! Stephen had stiffened a 
little under the adverse criticism, and John could re- 
member that his brother had said: 

“I really don’t know what you mean, Sara !” 

“Well, just think of it ! There’s Janet past thirty 
and she’s got nothing out of life. She’s watched 
and bullied and corrected as if she were a little girl. 
Why Pamela wouldn’t stand it for a second!” 

“You forget . . . Janet needs attention. Her 
malady . . .” Stephen was evidently prepared to 


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defend his mother’s actions. But Sara, wholly un- 
convinced, had given her gay rippling laugh. 

“Her malady? I believe she’d have got over it 
long ago if she’d only been let alone and given a 
little freedom. It seems to me that they all sit 
around waiting for her to faint!” 

When he thought of that conversation John al- 
most wished Sara had been there to help him 
now with her clear impartial judgment, her sensible 
straightforward advice. She was modern and 
worldly, luxurious and pleasure-seeking, but she pos- 
sessed a certain cool sanity that, combined with a 
wise sympathy, made her criticisms invaluable. She 
had certainly humanized Stephen, had made him less 
of a prig and more of a man, had eradicated much 
of the Ponsfordism — as she called it — ^from his 
character. He was not permitted to impose 
any Ponsford theories of education on their two 
children. 

Cosmo Bradney had been heard to regret that the 
Dean had not lived to see Pamela and Gilbert in 
their prime. . . . 

In default of Sara, John considered that Violet 
would have the happiest effect upon Janet. He 
might even persuade her to take her away for a little, 
when Cosmo had returned to Oxford. It would 
make a break in her life, and give him a little space 
in which to make plans for her future. But all the 
time, he felt that Janet was an unknown quantity 
to him. She would not remain a passive acqui- 
escent figure while they sought to separate her from 
the man she loved. If he did not misread her pres- 
ent attitude, he believed that she would fight for 
her own happiness^ — she would not allow it to be 
arbitrarily taken from her. She loved Lorimer, 
she believed in his love for her, she intended to 
marry him. Even Sara herself could hardly have 
reasoned her out of it. But, then, Sara always 


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247 

wished to give people what they wanted. She would 
only have said: “Why on earth shouldn’t she?” 

The three dined alone that evening. Janet was 
pale and very quiet and silent, but her eyes were 
grave and steady. She did not appear at all ex- 
cited by the events of the day. The knowledge of 
Lorimer’s love had surrounded her like a circum- 
ambient flood of peace. It seemed to her that after 
a long tempestuous voyage she had reached at last 
a calm haven. 

Dessert had just been put on the table when Mrs. 
Ponsford, turning to her daughter, said: 

“I’ve, just been telling John that perhaps Violet 
is going to bring Cosmo here for Christmas.” 

There were dishes of oranges and apples and a 
few large late pears on the table. Cut decanters 
containing port and sherry stood in front of John, 
and a dish of his favorite walnuts. 

John was peeling an orange. His face bending 
above it was scarcely visible ; the light from the lamp 
fell upon his thick fairish hair. Janet was not eat- 
ing, but she was watching her brother, and waiting 
for part of the orange he was so meticulously pre- 
paring. 

She looked up sharply as her mother spoke, and 
the blood seemed to rush back to her heart. She 
guessed that this first remark was but the prelude 
to some mighty decision. . . . 

She was right. Mrs Ponsford after a slight 
pause added: 

“I shall want all the rooms. I’ve told John he 
must get rid of his friend before they come. Cer- 
tainly not later than the twentieth.” 

“Oh! . . The sound that escaped from 
Janet’s lips was almost faint enough to elude obser- 
vation. Mrs. Ponsford, whose hearing was excel- 
lent for her seventy years, wondered if on this occa- 
sion it had betrayed her. 


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“I shouldn’t at all care to have him and Cosmo 
here at the same time,” continued Mrs. Ponsford, 
“and naturally at Christmas one prefers to entertain 
one’s own family.” 

Janet felt as if she had been gazing upon a bright 
and beautiful picture, and that even as she looked 
a black sponge had been drawn across it, blotting 
out its fair color and form. A fierce passionate mu- 
tiny filled her soul. Why was her mother so anx- 
ious that Lorimer should go away, ill and suffering 
as he still was, and homeless as she knew him to be? 
Had she herself divulged anything of her own feel- 
ing for him in their interview on the night of the 
accident, of which all details still escaped her mem- 
ory? But she felt as never before the iron will of 
her mother, a resistless thing against which it was 
useless and futile to fight. 

John, looking across the table, dimly aware of 
the struggle that was shaking Janet’s soul to its 
very foundations, met his sister’s eyes. She looked 
at him entreatingly, as if she were mutely implor- 
ing him to plead Lorimer’s cause. She was aware 
that John did not approve of their love, but surely 
he would not enter the lists against her, now that 
she had promised to marry Denis. . . . 

“You won’t let him go unless he’s well enough to 
travel?” she said. “He hasn’t a home of his own.” 

“He will be perfectly fit to travel in a week’s 
time. And he can live where he has always lived.” 

As Mrs. Ponsford uttered these words she looked 
steadily at Janet, as much as to say, “I know quite 
well why you want him to stay. And I’m not going 
to have anything of the kind. Lorimer, indeed! 
What next, I wonder?” 

If John had not been present, Janet was convinced 
that her mother would have used just those words. 

Mrs. Ponsford’s eyes were very hard then; they 
held a kind of steely glitter. Janet had known and 


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249 


feared that look now for many years. But to-night 
she felt imbued with an extraordinary courage. 
Perhaps it was the sense that in the future she 
would have Lorimer’s support to uphold her, his 
love to strengthen and protect her. She said sud- 
denly : 

“If you send him away now, he will come back 
very soon. I am going to marry Denis Lorimer.” 

There was a dreadful pause. Mrs. Ponsford con- 
tinued to regard her daughter with unpitying eyes, in 
which, too, one could discern both reproach and con- 
tempt, as if she believed that Janet had suddenly 
become demented through some fault, some im- 
prudence, of her own. 

John felt the blood rush to his face, and then 
ebb slowly away. It was horrible to watch them; 
he was irresistibly reminded of a cat and a mouse. 
He could almost see the smooth velvet paw raised 
to strike the petrified prey. 

Mrs. Ponsford was the first to recover herself 
sufficiently to speak. 

“Indeed, you’re not going to do anything so 
foolish. I forbid you to see him or speak to him 
again while he remains in this house. I can’t have 
you exhibiting such folly. And at your age, too!” 

The words were harsh and full of a biting scorn 
that scourged Janet like a whip. 

“You can’t separate us. I love him,” said Janet. 
It seemed to her that it was no longer her own voice 
that was speaking. It was a stranger’s — a cold 
resolute stranger’s. ... 

“And do you imagine that he can possibly love 

John made a little exclamation of dismay. There 
were things too cruel to be uttered. He shrank 
from the deliberate infliction of such bludgeon blows. 
It was true the thought had often teased his own 
mind, but he had tried to reject it. That it should 


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be uttered aloud to Janet herself seemed to him 
the refinement of cruelty. 

But Janet was not so easily to lose confidence in 
Lorimer’s love. It would take harder blows than 
that to destroy her complacent pathetic belief in 
it. 

“He does love me.” Her voice was steady. 
John began to realize then the new strength and con- 
fidence that informed her. 

“Has he had the impertinence to tell you so?” 
inquired Mrs. Ponsford. She rarely lost her tem- 
per, but delivered her blows coldly, deliberately. 
No haphazard hitting; she seemed to detect by in- 
stinct the vulnerable spot. 

“He told me so to-day.” 

“I don’t suppose he knew in the least what he was 
saying. They tell me he’s been wandering in his 
mind constantly.” 

“He wasn’t wandering in his mind — he was per- 
fectly conscious. And he’s taught me that I’m not 
. . . hateful !” As she said those last words her 
voice trembled a little for the first time. She was 
very white now and her lips were bloodless. But 
she was enduring the ordeal with a strange forti- 
tude, clinging to her point with a resolution that 
was not to be daunted or intimidated. 

“We won’t discuss it any more, and I must ask 
you not to repeat such foolish statements,” said Mrs. 
Ponsford. “You’re not quite yourself, Janet — 
you’d better go up to your own room, and I’ll 
send Hodge to you. We shall have you ill to-mor- 
row if we don’t take care.” 

She looked at her daughter sternly. And she 
hoped that John would realize now how disastrous 
had proved the increased freedom which Dr. Stokes 
had prescribed for Janet. There had been meet- 
ings, interchange of sentiments, a disclosure of mu- 
tual love. That montebank lying upstairs had 


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missed nothing of his opportunity. There was no 
doubt that he wished to marry Janet, was prepared 
to saddle himself with a semi-invalid wife in con- 
sideration of her income. That was surely the only 
rnotive that could have prompted an offer of mar- 
riage on such slight acquaintance. Six hundred a 
year. . . . And more when she herself died. To a 
person without a half-penny this must surely repre- 
sent positive affluence. 

But Mrs. Ponsford was resolved not to permit 
such a degrading alliance. John must help her to 
put a stop to the whole affair. She was certain of 
John’s support. A motor-ambulance must be sent 
for in the morning, and with a couple of nurses to 
travel with him and perhaps Dr. Stokes, too, if he 
could spare the time, there could be no kind of 
risk in removing Mr. Lorimer from the Grange. 
He could be safely and swiftly transported to Ken- 
stone, and Mrs. Ponsford was resolved that never 
again should his shadow darken her doors. No 
one should say that she had been lacking in kindness 
to this sick stranger, but he had violated all 
the unwritten laws of hospitality by making sur- 
reptitious love to her daughter. There were limits, 
and he had deliberately overpassed them. Making 
love to Janet indeed! He had even persuaded her 
that he loved her, and no doubt she had proved an 
apt pupil, had drunk the sweet false draught with- 
out hesitation. And Janet, who only a few nights 
ago had bewailed her lost youth, weeping over it, 
could now make herself believe without difficulty 
that Lorimer loved her. 

Then words fell upon Mrs. Ponsford’s ear — 
amazing preposterous words to emanate from the 
submissive, obedient Janet. 

“Pll go up to my room, but Hodge isn’t to come. 
I won’t have her near me ever again!” 

She felt to-night as if the touch of Hodge’s hands 


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would be a desecration. John must surely take 
her part. . . . She wasn’t going to be ill; she had 
never felt so strong, so full of self-confidence as 
she did to-night. But she couldn’t have Hodge near 
her. 

John rose and slipped his arm in his sister’s. 
Even he felt afraid of the results of all this excite- 
ment for her; it would not do to leave her quite 
alone. 

“I’ll come up with you, Jane dear,” he said gently 
and led her out of the room. 

Mrs. Ponsford went into the hall and watched 
her two youngest children as they climbed the stairs 
side by side. She leaned a little more heavily than 
was her custom upon her black-handled cane to- 
night. But her face was unperturbed, and despite 
Janet’s wild rebellious words she still felt a supreme 
confidence in her own power to end this foolish en- 
gagement. 

Then she went into the library and taking up her 
knitting worked at it with undiminished assiduity. 
Only once did she pause for a second to wonder what 
they were saying to each other upstairs. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

J OHN sat by the fire in Janet’s room, in a big old- 
fashioned armchair that was covered with a 
shiny chintz of early- Victorian pattern. Janet sat 
on the sofa just opposite to him. He waited for 
her to speak. Her thoughts were wont to move 
slowly, and to-night he felt they must be unusually 
confused; she had passed through such a succession 
of unaccustomed emotions during the day. It had 
been for her perhaps the most eventful day of her 


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whole life. It was bound — ^whatever might come 
of it — to affect her future very seriously, either for 
joy or sorrow. He desperately longed to know 
what was going on in her mind. That brief out- 
burst of passion had been so unlike her. As a rule, 
when things went wrong or her mother was unusually 
severe with her, she brooded and struggled in timid 
silence. To-night she was changed, more assured, 
more courageous. 

She said at last: 

“I did right to tell her, didn’t I? She can’t do 
Denis any harm. . . .” 

So that was what made her so fearless, so resolute 
— this sense that whatever might happen to her, 
Denis could not suffer. . . . 

“She can send him away. But I’ll see that he’s 
all right.” 

“You mean he’ll have to go sooner because of 
this?” 

“I should think he’d go to-morrow morning,” 
said John. “I don’t see who is to stop it.” 

“In this cold? Why, it was snowing this even- 

“Perhaps you should have waited a little before 
telling her. But it was the brave thing to do.” 

“But it’ll hurt him to go to-morrow — he isn’t fit 
to be moved. He may blame me. . . .” 

“I don’t think he can possibly blame you. He 
made no secret of it to me. He told me when I 
went in to see him.” 

“Did he think Mamma wouldn’t approve?” 

“He didn’t say so.” 

“I wonder if he saw that she didn’t like him? 
It was so plain to me. ...” 

“Denis is accustomed to exciting aversion. It 
does happen sometimes to a man who is generally 
very quickly liked.” 


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“Does it? I can’t imagine any one not liking 
Denis at once. He . . . he’s so wonderful. 
You’ve always liked him, haven’t you, Johnny?” 

“Yes, I’ve liked him, Janet. But I don’t always 
approve of everything he does and says. And I’m 
sorry, too, that he’s taught you to care for him.” 

“He didn’t teach me,” she said siniply, “I . . . 
just cared, Johnny. Even that first night when he 
followed you so unexpectedly into the room, look- 
ing so cold and tired and a little hungry, I cared 
for him. But of course I never dreamed that he 
could care for me — ^I’m so old and plain now. I 
look older than Violet — no one would have thought 
it impossible for a man to fall in love with her. 
But you can see Mamma doesn’t believe that he can 
possibly care for me.” She sighed. 

John was silent. He, too, put scant credence in 
Lorimer’s glib protestations of love. Scarcely six 
months ago he had been passionately in love with 
Donna Camilla. He had left Italy broken-hearted, 
broken too in body and mind. It had been a genu- 
ine passion while it lasted, and Lorimer had suffered 
tortures from his defeat. Yet he had managed to 
convince Janet now that he loved her, and it re- 
mained to be seen whether he or Mrs. Ponsford 
would win. Janet stood between them, as between 
the upper and the nether millstone, a fragile helpless 
figure. 

“John,” she said suddenly, “you must tell her 
that I’ll make any promise about not seeing him — 
not speaking to him, while he’s here — if she’ll only 
let him stay. I’m sure it would kill him to be 
moved in this cold weather while he’s still so ill. 
People would wonder at our letting him go. . . . 
Do tell her, won’t you?” 

“Yes, Janet dear. I’ll tell her. But then if he 
sends for you as he did to-day?” 

One could hardly explain to Lorimer the terms 


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upon which he was permitted to remain at the 
Grange. 

“I might go away . . . perhaps Sara would have 
me. And then I could see Denis in London . . . 
when there would be no one to interfere. . . 

“But don’t you realize that Mother is utterly 
opposed to your marrying him? She will try to 
prevent you, and I don’t know how to advise you, 
Janet. You must think it all over very carefully, 
and try to find out how far it’s your duty to obey 
her.” 

She shook her head. “I’ve only one duty now, 
and that’s to Denis. I’ve promised to be his wife 
directly he’s better. I shall take such care of him 
till he’s well and strong again.” 

“I think under the circumstances it would be best 
for you to go to Sara’s if she can have you. It 
would be rather miserable for you here. But I’ll 
tell Mother what you say about not seeing Denis, 
not speaking to him. . . 

He took Janet’s hand. It was white and thin and 
somewhat incapable-looking. She had not inherited 
her mother’s useful, firm, competent-looking hands 
that always seemed so expressive of the energy of 
her mind and body. 

“Do all you can for Denis, John,” she pleaded. 
“I shan’t like leaving him. Supposing he were to 
have a relapse?” 

“I’d promise to send for you. But Stokes didn’t 
seem to think it was likely.” 

She was silent. Her face wore a brooding medi- 
tative look. 

“You must pray, you know, for guidance,” he 
said. “If you do marry Lorimer I’d like you to 
be received first. I must look out some books for 
you, Janet, you could begin to read.” 

“Yes. I’ve always wanted to be a Catholic, and 
more than ever since that day I heard you say 


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Mass. It was the thought that you were one, that 
first put it into my head. And now I think Denis 
would like it too.” 

John rose and bending his head kissed her. 

“Pray a great deal, dear Janet. . . .” he mur- 
mured. 

She looked up. 

“I pray for Denis always. . . . Shall you see him 
again to-night, Johnny?” 

“Yes.” ^ 

“Give him my dear love. . . .” 

John did not immediately go to Lorimer’s room. 
He rightly expected that his mother would be await- 
ing his return, perhaps with some anxiety after the 
scene at dinner. 

She accepted with relief Janet’s promise neither 
to see nor to speak to Lorimer, and rather approved 
of the suggestion that she should go and stay with 
Sara. She hoped Sara would talk her out of all this 
foolishness; she would write herself, and give 
Stephen a hint. . . . 

Mrs. Ponsford was secretly glad of an excuse for 
not banishing Lorimer immediately; she did not wish 
to send him away at the risk of his life, for although 
she was a hard, self-willed, prepotent woman, she 
never liked to do anything of which the consequences 
might conceivably lower her in the esteem of others. 
If Lorimer became worse and died after his removal 
to Kenstone she would surely be blamed for sending 
him away from the Grange. She belonged to a 
generation that cherished a wholesome awe of public 
opinion. 

“I’m very glad that you’ve been able to make 
her see reason, John. And perhaps the best thing 
for her will be to go away as soon as possible. If 
she stays here, that mountebank will try to get 
her to elope with him, and you know how foolish 
poor Janet is ! The sooner she forgets him the bet- 


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257 


ter. . . . Of course even if he really wished to marry 
her — which I can’t for a moment believe — I should 
never have permitted it. All my children have made 
excellent marriages. I remember your dear father 
was not quite pleased at first when Algernon Dacre- 
son made an offer for Louisa. His father was only 
a half-pay officer and there was very little money. 
But dear Louisa was so much attached to him, 
and it turned out far better than we expected.” 

“I don’t see how you’re going to prevent the 
marriage,” said John gloomily. 

Mrs. Ponsford laughed, a little ironically. 

“Oh, I know how to look after Janet,” she said. 
“I hope by this time you see the wisdom of our 
policy, which you and Dr. Stokes have been trying 
to destroy. If Hodge had been looking after Janet 
as usual, there would have been no opportunity for 
Mr. Lorimer to ask her to be his wife.” 

“You may be right in theory. Janet has been 
looked after so rigorously, she’s bound to be like 
a child learning its first steps. . . . But it wasn’t wise 
either to relegate her to the custody of such a woman 
as Hodge. Illiterate — ^not very kind • ; • I shall 
never forget the way she gave her that injection!” 

“Oh, I daresay she used more force than was quite 
necessary, but as Janet didn’t feel it, it doesn’t mat- 
ter. She’s an excellent servant, faithful, devoted 
. . . and she’s been with us for thirty years.” 

“Janet is afraid of her. She must never be put 
in her power again.” 

“In her power? What an absurd expression! I 
have always been here myself to look after things. 
You speak as if Hodge were in the habit of ill- 
treating Janet.” 

“Stokes is certain that she terrorizes her. I 
shouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t tell you all 
this. But I’ve made plans for Janet. I shall accept 
the work that’s been offered to me at Gillingsea. 


2s8 average cabins 

For a time at least I hope she’ll come to live near 
me. 

“I thought you intended to become a Benedictine. 
And then your studies. . . .*’ 

“Yes — ^but I see my way quite clearly. I must 
help Janet.” 

“You’d better get this Lorimer out of the country 
first,” she remarked grimly. 

“I don’t think it’ll be difficult.” 

He was quite hopeful about future dealings with 
Denis. The man wanted money, and money was 
precisely what John intended to offer him. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever thought that if you 
carry out your plans for Janet it will reflect most 
seriously on me! People will think I ... I 
haven’t been kind to her.” 

“They shall never think that. But mistakes have 
been made, and it’s not too late to rectify them, 
thank God.” 

“It’s all perfectly absurd. Janet has an excel- 
lent home here — I’ve grudged her nothing. Plenty 
to eat and drink — a good fire in her room all day 
— some one to be always at her beck and call. . . .” 

John repressed a smile at this euphemistic descrip- 
tion of the part played by Hodge. 

“And now I suppose you mean to make a Catholic 
of her? What your dear father would have said to 
your all repudiating his life-work in this way I 
really don’t like to imagine I And Janet too! . . . 
One would have thought such a feeble-minded quarry 
was scarcely worth pursuit!” 

“She’ll only become a Catholic if she wishes to 
— if she feels that she must. But she must first 
thoroughly understand all that it entails. That’s 
what is so wonderful about the Faith, Mother, it 
is for the weak as well as the strong, the simple 
as well as the learned. For us all, in fact, as Christ 
intended that it should be.” His eyes shone. “It 


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will give Janet strength and poise — it will help to 
develop her intellectually as well as spiritually. Her 
will has been atrophied.” 

“Atrophied? Her will! She never had one. 
You’re talking nonsense, John. You and Dr. Stokes 
and this Lorimer have all entered into a conspiracy 
to deprive me of my own daughter. I don’t blame 
you — ^you’ve simply been hoodwinked with all this 
talk of tyranny and torture. As if I didn’t know 
Hodge much better than any of you. And Janet 
too.” She looked at him with something of con- 
tempt. She believed he wished to gain control over 
Janet for the sole purpose of converting her to 
Catholicism. He was an enthusiast, almost a fa- 
natic. But she felt assured that disappointment 
awaited him. Janet showed her best side to him; 
he had always drawn out what was sweetest in her, 
but when he had her to himself he would soon find 
what a miserable, weak, invertebrate, uncontrolled 
creature the poor thing was. She trembled to think 
— so she inwardly assured herself — what Janet 
would be like when permanently removed from the 
custody of Hodge. And in the end John, discover- 
ing the impossibility of the task he had undertaken, 
would send his sister back to the Grange. . . . 

“You were always so cocksure, John. So you 
think you’re going to succeed, and work won- 
ders. . . 

“I shall pray tremendously hard to succeed,” he 
said smiling. 

“And when is this experiment to begin?” 

“Probably after Janet’s visit to Sara.” 

“Sara won’t want her there long!” 

“Oh, I mean to talk to Sara about it. And then 
Violet . . .” 

“I don’t suppose you’ll find the family quite so 
eager to help you as you suppose.” 

“It’ll only be for a little time. Janet will be 


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happy with me directly I’m settled and can give 
her a home. There’s a cottage she can have quite 
close to the presbytery — I shall get a good maid for 
her and a young companion, too, if she feels dull. 
Stokes thought she ought to have some one young 
with her. But that can be seen to later on.” 

“Oh, then she won’t be with you?” 

“No — that would be impossible — I shall only 
share the presbytery with another priest.” 

“Well, I hope Janet will enjoy her cottage.” 
There was a note of bitter irony in her voice. The 
Grange would be far less comfortable without Janet’s 
money; she could not carry it on as it was now. 
She must get rid of a servant or two, and have one 
man less in the garden. It was all very upsetting, 
but no one thought of her or her comfort. It was 
absurd, too, this plan of taking Janet away. Janet 
had lived with her all her life, and it was her duty 
to remain at the Grange and comfort her mother’s 
declining years. In thought Mrs. Ponsford waxed 
sentimental, but she did not reveal these feelings to 
John, whose clear-cut face was hard as adamant. In 
this matter, she considered he was showing the true 
Ponsford qualities of iron will, and an absolute be- 
lief in his own infallibility. And he had always 
been the most tractable of all her children. None 
of the others had possessed quite his sweetness of 
disposition. 

“Well, you’ll let Lorimer stay on for a bit, won’t 
you?” said John; “it would never do to move him 
just yet. He won’t interfere at all with Violet and 
Cosmo if they come.” 

“Janet will keep her promise?” 

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid of that. . . .” 

“I shall telegraph to Sara in the morning. The 
sooner Janet goes away the better. John, you’re 
not to encourage this idea of marriage. You must 
see that Lorimer isn’t of our world. What do you 


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tliink Stephen and Algernon Dacreson and Gerard 
Fortune would think of him? I’m not going to 
have it. He only wants her money, and you know 
that if Janet doesn’t marry, all her money will go 
to Giles. He needs it too, poor fellow, with all 
those children! It’s our duty to put a stop to it.” 

“I don’t like it any more than you do. But I 
can’t see how we’re going to stop it. She seems to 
have fallen in love with him almost at first sight. 
And now that he’s proposed to her, . . .” 

“Do you mean to stand by and see your sister 
sacrificed?” she demanded angrily. 

John’s thoughts were back in Lorimer’s room on 
the night when believing himself to be dying he 
had made a confession. Locked within the priest’s 
heart as it was, that confession could yet disturb him 
with its unbearable memories. And above all he 
recalled those terrible words: Angus must have 
told Pio that the man he*d treated as a friend^ the 
man who wanted to- marry his sister^ was nothing 
better than a common thief P 

The man who wanted to mdrry his sister^ . . . 
Yes, Pio had tried to befriend him, and Lorimer had 
betrayed his hospitality by making surreptitious love 
to Donna Camilla behind his back, though aware of 
his own utter unworthiness. And John had co*m- 
mitted the same error as Pio; he had held out a 
helping hand to Denis, and this was his reward. 
Denis had sought and won Janet’s love, as well 
as her complete trust and confidence. And he did 
not love her; he was marrying her coldly and de- 
liberately for the sake of her money; he would 
end by breaking her heart. . . . 

“You have more influence over Janet than any 
one,” continued Mrs. Ponsford; ''you must do all 
you can to stop it. I shall rely upon you — ” 

“I am sorry,” he said coldly; “I can’t possibly 
interfere. Our only hope lies in getting her away 


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from here, and perhaps Sara’s influence ... I can 
do nothing. He came here as my friend — I can’t 
tell her, after that, that I don’t want her to marry 
him. Especially when he has persuaded her that 
he loves her.” 

“Loves her? Impertinence! What next, I won- 
der?” She fell back upon the old phrase. “Fifty 
years ago she’d have been shut up in her room and 
fed on bread and water till she gave in. Did you 
ever read ‘Clarissa Harlowe,’ John?” 

“But that was much longer than fifty years ago,” 
he objected. “And you really can’t shut a woman 
of Janet’s age up in her room as if she were mentally 
deranged !” 

“Ah, if your dear father had been alive he would 
very soon have brought her to her senses. And he’d 
have had this mountebank out of the house long 
ago. . . .” 

She would never own to herself that she had felt 
some relief in her own release from the Dean’s 
autocratic discipline. She had been almost as much 
afraid of him as the children were. It was very 
good for the children of course, since it had served 
to keep them — especially the girls — in a wholesome 
state of fear and apprehension. She herself had 
found it a little trying at times to be the object of 
that “righteous indignation,” that obstinate author- 
ity, but she did wish from time to time that he could 
return for a few days and set his house in order 
in just the old way. . . . 

There would be no more talk of any engagement 
between Janet and Lorimer then 1 . . . 


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CHAPTER XXV 

J OHN felt a great reluctance to visit Lorimer on 
the following day. 

The promise of snow had been fulfilled, and he 
had awakened to find a lovely white world bathed 
in the pale December sunshine. Snow crowned the 
great fang-like summits of the Eastern Pikes, and 
silvered! the long sloping shoulder of Wansdale 
Raise. Wanswater lay like a bright colorless mirror 
between snow-covered banks, and the brown woods 
beyond were also lightly powdered with silver. 
There was a wonderful beauty about the scene, and 
he lingered for some time at the library window 
after breakfast, gazing at it. 

The roads would be almost impassable to-day, 
owing to the deep fall of snow. It would make 
traffic across the fells difficult and dangerous. Mrs. 
Ponsford would have found the elements against 
her, had she decided upon sending Lorimer away 
that day. 

But there was Janet. Janet must make that pro- 
posed journey to London as soon as possible. Lor- 
imer would certainly ask to see her, and he was 
still at a stage when to thwart him in anything 
might produce a return of fever. It would be 
difficult, therefore, to refuse his request, and im- 
possible also to reveal the promise Janet had made 
not to see him. To tell him that, would be to display 
before him without any mitigation of the truth, the 
measure of Mrs. Ponsford’s undoubted hostility. 

And he would probably believe that Janet had 
been coerced into making that promise. A new 
example of the tyranny with which she was ruled! 

. . . It would make him more than ever eager 
to effect her rescue. There was something of 


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264 

chivalry in his attitude towards her — of that John 
was reluctantly aware. 

When, later in the morning, he concjuered his 
repugnance to an interview, he went upstairs to Lor- 
imer’s room. It was rather a relief to find that 
Denis was asleep. His strange face was calm and 
tranquil as a child’s. In its emaciation it looked 
almost ascetic. Something of a new contentment 
seemed to have permeated the subconsciousness to 
which belongs the mysterious kingdom of dreams. 
He was ’ slightly smiling, and in the smile there 
seemed to b^e something both of satisfaction and 
triumph. But seen thus in repose, his face was to 
a great degree beautiful and innocent. All the 
dusk)^, shady, ambiguous passages of his life seemed 
to be blotted out. He had perhaps deliberately 
looked his last upon a past that had held the en- 
chanting, romantic figure of Camilla Ascarelli, and 
was glimpsing a future that promised something 
more prosaic and commonplace and at the same time 
more durable. He had won the love of a good 
woman who was both loving and weak. What 
would be the end of that rash engagement so re- 
cently entered upon? How soon would he weary of 
Janet with her intellectual limitations — her physical 
weakness — her adoring love? 

Janet had given him her whole heart — the pent-up 
devotion of her own starved life. She would put 
herself utterly into his hands, to make and mold or 
mar as he would. . . . 

Meanwhile plans were being arranged apace. 
Mrs. Ponsford was determined to run no risks. In 
the afternoon a thaw set in, converting the roads 
to a brown slush. A telegram was dispatched to 
Sara, and a letter simultaneously posted to Stephen, 
giving him some slight details of the situation at 
Wanswater. “A very undesirable out-at-elbows 


AVERAGE CABINS 265 

friend of John’s had been staying for some weeks 
at the Grange and was now very ill with pneu- 
monia. He had been making love to Janet, and 
Janet — like a fool — had listened to him, had drunk 
in every word, and now declared her intention of 
marrying him. As he was too ill to be sent out of 
the house, their only course was to banish Janet, 
hence the telegram to Sara. Of course, the man 
was only after her money. . . .” Mrs. Ponsford 
added that she relied upon Sara to instil a little 
common sense into Janet’s head. She hoped they 
would put her up for a week or two — there was 
really nothing else to be done except to send her 
to London. Of course, Hodge would accompany 
her. 

The telegram and letter both produced a shock 
similar to the explosion of a bombshell in the house 
in Green Street. 

“I shall take Janet in because I must,” said Sara, 
looking across the breakfast-table on the following 
morning to where Stephen was sitting immersed 
in the Times, “But I won’t have Hodge. Of 
course, I see she must travel with Janet, but I shall 
pack her off on my own as soon as possible.” 

Stephen, the eldest of the Ponsfords and a man 
close on fifty, with thick gray hair and a slightly 
corpulent figure, looked up from the newspaper 
with an irritable expression. 

“You’d much better refuse. Janet’ll be awfully 
in the way in the Christmas holidays. She’ll bore 
the children.” 

He was not fond of Janet, of whom his chief 
recollection was as a nervous little girl who cried 
when he teased her, thereby getting him into “hot- 
water,” as he would have expressed it. Her malady 
made him feel slightly ashamed of her, and he never 
permitted his special or more intimate friends to 


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see her. She was a deviation from the solid nor- 
mality of the Ponsford stock, and he felt that she 
diminished its value. 

He did not see in her, as John did, a beautiful 
struggling soul, half-submerged in a “dark tremen- 
dous sea of cloud. . . 

It had been a great shock to him also, to learn 
from his mother’s letter — which lay open on the 
table — that Janet had actually been sought in mar- 
riage. Who was this Denis Lorimer? An old 
fool, probably, who was certainly after her money. 
Six hundred a year — and it ought all to have gone 
to Giles’s children. The Dean should have tied it 
up, instead of leaving her the full control of it in 
the event of her marriage. It was absolutely at 
her own disposal, and there was no doubt she would 
leave it all to this needy adventurer. 

He did not care for Giles, and rather disliked his 
children than otherwise, but an obscure tribal sense 
of clanship made him range himself strongly on 
his brother’s side. 

Sara only said: “I don’t see why she shouldn’t 
marry him if she wants to. She’s always had an 
awfully thin time at home.” 

“I do hope you won’t take that view of it to 
Janet. You must do as my mother says and try to 
instil a little common sense into her head.” 

Sara looked at him with perfect composure. 

“I shall do nothing of the sort, Stephen. This 
is Janet’s business, not mine, and you know I’ve al- 
ways disapproved of the way she was treated.” 

She munched a thin crisp piece of hot toast and 
sipped her coffee. 

“Johnny must be feeling pretty sick about it, since 
this man’s a friend of his. Wonder why he ever 
took him to the Grange,” said Stephen. 

“I don’t suppose he thought there’d be any chance 
of his wanting to marry Janet,” said Sara. “I like 


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Janet myself. She’s very patient and unselfish.” 

At that moment the door opened and a big, rather 
fat, very good-looking girl of about fifteen came 
into the room. 

“Late again, Pam,” said Stephen, smiling at her. 

“Well, I was dancing till one,” replied Pamela. 
“Hullo! A letter from Gran! What’s she writ- 
ing about? Not to ask us there for Christmas, I 
hope?” 

She took up the letter and perused it. Neither of 
her parents uttered the slightest remonstrance. 
There was no use in concealing facts from Pamela; 
she always found everything out. 

She had round dark eyes with pretty dark curled 
lashes, a white skin and black bobbed hair that hung 
thickly about her face and brow. She was fat be- 
cause it was the fashion for girls of that age to be 
fat. Women of her mother’s generation had often 
“banted” to achieve a slender silhouette. You 
wouldn’t catch the girls of to-day banting; they had 
lived too long on strictly rationed food. . . . 

“Oh, help!” she ejaculated; “fancy any one want- 
ing to marry poor old Aunt Janet! Jolly lucky 
thing for her, though. I’ll help her to get her 
trousseau while she’s here. It’ll be an awful rag.” 

She sat down and began to consume a large plate 
of porridge liberally covered with cream and sugar. 

Sara watched her daughter. “If any one could 
make me feel old-fashioned and a back number, it 
would be Pamela,” she reflected. “She has so ab- 
sorbed the new spirit.” She advised her, but never 
tried to control her. Pamela knew exactly what 
she wanted, and intended to have it. Sara found it 
simpler, therefore, to give her what she asked for ; it 
saved rows, unpleasantness, and perhaps duplicity. 

She had taught Stephen to pursue a like policy. 
The lesson had not been easy, because it was so 
diametrically opposed to the true robust Ponsford 


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code. When she was smaller, he had wanted to 
smack her, and to his astonishment Sara had imme- 
diately become like a lioness defending her cubs. 

Stephen had no fixed profession, though he had 
been called to the Bar in his youth. The great in- 
terest of his life was finance. He wrote articles 
about it in some of the more serious reviews and 
quarterlies, but this hardly amounted to an occu- 
pation, much less to a profession. He was also 
a director of three old-established companies, and 
he found this more remunerative as well as less in- 
tellectually fatiguing than committing his knowledge 
on the subject of finance to paper. 

“When’s Aunt Janet coming?” Pamela referred 
to the letter. “Oh, to-morrow evening. Well, 
we’ve got a day’s reprieve. What are you going 
to do to amuse me this afternoon, old thing?” 

Stephen was accustomed to being thus addressed 
by his affectionate daughter. He beamed at her and 
said: 

“You’d better choose. Nothing too strenuous, 
though.” 

“We’ll do a play,” pronounced Pamela. She read 
out the list of matinees. “Yes — ‘The Spin of the 
Coin . . .’ it’ll shock you, but then everything 
shocks you. It’s jolly good I know. I’ll ’phone 
for the tickets if you like.” 

Her plate was now empty, and another, liberally 
supplied with poached eggs and bacon, had taken 
its place. 

“Dancing, up till one o’clock makes one jolly 
hungry for breakfast,” she remarked, as if in apol- 
ogy. “Do you think Aunt Janet will want me to be 
a bridesmaid? I shan’t let her choose what I’m to 
wear, though. The old lady seems to be making an 
awful fuss about the whole thing.” 

“Well, she doesn’t like it, naturally,” said Sara. 
“She thinks he’s marrying her for her money.” 


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269 

“Tosh I** was Pamela’s contemptuous criticism. 
“Six hundred a year isn’t enough. You want that for 
love In a cottage these days. I should be sorry to 
set up housekeeping on it, I can tell you, and I’m 
still at the romantic age.” 

She applied herself with renewed energy to her 
breakfast. “If this man’s a friend of Uncle John’s, 
I suppose he’s a Catholic,” she said. “That’ll be 
fun — they can be married at Westminster Cathe- 
dral. I should like to be a bridesmaid there — it’s 
such a splendid mise-en-scene. What a pity poor 
old Aunt Janet isn’t better suited to the principal 
part ! Still, if we rig her out, I daresay she’ll look 
all right. Denis Lorimer? It’s rather a nice name. 
I mean to be very charming to my new Uncle 
Denis. . . .” 

Sara said: 

“I only wish It hadn’t happened just now. 
I’ve got so much to do, what with Gilbert coming 
back, and Christmas presents to get.” A slight 
frown puckered the perfect smoothness of her 
brow. 

“Don’t worry, old thing. Gilbert and I prefer 
to choose our own presents, and we can look out 
something for Dad if you like !” 

“Yes, I know your shopping,” said Sara, with un- 
comfortable recollections of an endless bill from 
a Bond Street shop, which had been the sequel to 
their last efforts in this direction. 

“Oh, well, if you don’t like the results! And 
we took a lot of trouble.” 

“The results were so much greater than I ex- 
pected,” remarked Sara, dryly. 

She had finished her breakfast and rose from the 
table. “You’ll want lunch early if you’re going to 
the play,” she said, “that is, if you want any at 
all, Pam.” 

“Of course I shall want lunch and lots of it,” 


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replied Pamela, with her mouth full of buttered 
scone and marmalade. 

Sara raised her eyebrows. The immense propor- 
tions of her daughter vaguely disturbed her. The 
short hair, the broad candid brow with the prls 
hiding the cheeks and not the forehead ; the upright, 
straight, almost shapeless and quite unrestrained 
figure — yes, these things were all characteristic of 
Pamela’s age and type. Yet with it all, she man- 
aged to present an aspect of good looks, good 
health, and good temper that seemed to justify the 
liberty and freedom from all but the most neces- 
sary control, which she enjoyed. She adored her 
mother, was kind and considerate to Stephen, and 
was “great pals” with Gilbert, who was a year 
younger. Her education was conducted on the 
most expensive lines and comprised all the subjects 
she really wished to learn. It was no use, she had 
affirmed at the age of twelve, when the last of her 
resident governesses had departed in a storm of 
rage and tears, it was no use trying to teach her 
things for which she had no aptitude. She would 
learn all she wanted to fast enough. Sara and 
Stephen sighed over the curriculum she placed before 
them, but they had no option except to submit. It 
was all done so gracefully, almost apologetically, 
as if she were sadly aware of her own limitations; 
and now after some years they were obliged to 
admit that the experiment hadn’t turned out so 
badly. Pamela had a real gift for music and 
played remarkably well for her age. She danced 
at least as gracefully as any of the slender maidens 
of a bygone day. She could speak French 
fluently and Italian tolerably, and wrote excel- 
lent letters in a capable, modern, upright hand- 
writing. 

Sara had said to her husband: “You see, it’s 
no earthly use your treating her like a Ponsford — 


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271 


she doesn’t take after your family. She’s a product 
of the age.” 

Stephen was secretly proud of her. He didn’t 
really mind being called “old thing,” and other dis- 
respectful but endearing appellations. She was such 
a good sort, was Pamela, always so cheery and good- 
tempered. And already one or two highly eligible 
youths had shown her considerable attention. . . . 

Janet arrived on the following evening. Sara 
received her alone, for the children were out to- 
gether — Gilbert having returned from school that 
same afternoon — and Stephen had gone to his club. 
Sara knew that she could not look to him for any 
assistance in the task of entertaining Janet. He 
would probably spend most of the day at his club, 
eating large and indigestible meals, and losing his 
money and temper at bridge. He would go off quite 
cheerfully, perhaps saying that women were best 
left alone together. He was civil and kind enough 
to his sister when he did see her, but he possessed a 
very strong strain of Ponsford individuality — he 
did not call it egotism. 

“Well, Janet, what’s the matter with you now?” 
he said, when he came into the drawing-room just 
before dinner that evening, and found her there with 
Sara. It was his invariable greeting to her, but he 
did not perceive that it had grown in course of years 
slightly inappropriate. 

Of course, he’d never known Janet well, he used 
to tell himself when he felt slightly self-reproachful 
at the want of affection he was conscious of towards 
her. She had been a baby when he was already at 
a public school, and when he came home for the 
holidays and teased her, she was frightened and 
cried. She wasn’t up to standard — the Ponsford 
standard. This secretly annoyed him, and made 
him feel a little ashamed of her. 


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“Nothing’s the matter with me, thank you, 
Stephen,” said Janet’s grave voice. “Mamma 
thought I’d better have a change. John agreed with 
her.” She made the statements mechanically. 
They were all used to seeing her treated in an arbi- 
trary manner, so that her own wishes were subordi- 
nate things that didn’t count. 

The glitter of Sara’s house, its concealed yet 
golden electric light that suffused the room with a 
kind of subdued glow almost as of mellowed sun- 
shine, the polished surfaces, the clear clean out- 
lines, the brilliant colors, dazzled her a little. It 
was such a change after the dim lamp-lit interior, 
the old-fashioned, rather heterogeneous furniture of 
her own home. Sara had a great fondness for rose- 
pink, and expressed this preference in her carpets, 
curtains, hangings and even in the straight short 
velvet gown she was wearing. 

“Well, I daresay London’ll rouse you up a bit. 
You look as if you wanted rousing, doesn’t she, 
Sara? Wanswater’s a deadly hole in the winter. 
You’re not going to wait for Pamela and Gilbert, 
are you? When I was a boy no one waited for 
me if I was at all late, and I had to wait for some- 
thing to eat till next day.” He laughed a little 
grimly at the reminiscence. 

“I can’t say it had the effect of making you ex- 
actly punctual,” said Sara, smiling. “But we won’t 
wait for them anyhow.” She pushed a little pink 
enamel button at her side, and gave the order for 
dinner to be served. 

All the time she was regarding Janet secretly with 
her calm American eyes. Janet was certainly 
changed. There was the least touch of increased 
assurance. . . . She looked puzzled, and yet ex- 
traordinarily alive. 

“She’s in love with this man,” thought Sara. 


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273 


Stephen interposed with a clumsy though well- 
meaning question. 

“What’s the name of this friend of John’s who’s 
been so ill down at Wanswater?” 

He had no idea that as yet Sara had not ventured 
to broach the subject to ‘Janet. 

“Denis Lorimer,” said Janet. 

“What sort of aged man,’’ he inquired. 

“About . . . twenty-nine. . . 

“Oh, quite a young chap,” said Stephen, looking 
relieved. There was probably nothing in it, nothing 
at all. A foolish fancy. ... It would not come to 
anything. Sara must give her a good talking to ! 

Janet said nothing. Twenty-nine, and she was 
past thirty-five and her youth was gone. She felt 
that she looked years and years older than Sara, 
who was much the same age as herself. Six years. 
. . . Her brother Curtis was six years older than 
herself, and to her he had seemed grown up ever 
since she could remember; first as a huge awkward 
schoolboy, and then as a long-legged athletic young 
man, and lastly as an officer home from India, with 
a cold hard face and stern eyes. She thought of 
him as he was now, a man of forty-one or so, 
with a son in the Army — he had married as quite 
a young subaltern — and a daughter, who had mar- 
ried last year. Janet had heard it said that he had 
been a harsh father to his two children. He had 
been left a widower before he was twenty-five. 
Molly had married a man he didn’t like, a young 
officer called Firth, who had done very well in the 
War. She was a bright, pretty, wilful little creature, 
very like her mother, it was said. She was happy, 
Janet believed. . . . 

“Penny for your thoughts, Janet,” said Stephen. 
His efforts to be cheery with this silent sister of his 
were pathetic. 


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She was thankful that she could truthfully answer ; 

“I was thinking of Molly. Have you heard from 
her lately?” 

“Sara had an ecstatic letter after her brat was 
born,” said Stephen. 

“It’s a girl — they’ve called it Lucy,” said Sara. 
“Molly’s going to bring her home next year.” 

“Is she friends with Curtis now?” asked Janet. 

“So-so,” said Stephen, “not much love lost, you 
know. I can’t see why he should have objected to 
her marrying Charles Firth. He’s a very good 
sort, devoted to Molly, and quite enough 
money. . . .” 

“As if any one could be friends with Curtis,” put 
in Sara; “he’s the most Ponsfordy of you all!” 

“Better be careful — ^you’ll shock Janet!” roared 
Stephen, breaking into one of his huge jovial laughs. 

The telephone bell rang. “Just see what that is, 
Stephen,” said Sara. 

Stephen rose obediently and went into the next 
room. “Hullo! . . .Hullo! . . . That you, Pam? 
Dining with Violet? All right. Gilbert there, 
too? Right-0. Don’t be too late.” He hung up 
the receiver. “They’re both dining with Violet,” 
he said to his wife. 

At dinner Sara returned to the subject of Curtis 
and his children. Janet was thankful that the con- 
versation should have drifted away from herself and 
Wanswater; she felt that she could not bear much 
more of Stephen’s blunt questioning. 

“Molly and little Curtis could tell you a thing 
or two,” Sara informed her; “they simply refused to 
let him spoil their lives.” There was the least 
touch of indignation in her tone. “Molly’s per- 
fectly happy, and she’s got a nice young husband 
who is devoted to her. Little Curtis is very popular 
in his regiment; he did simply splendidly during the 
last six months of the War, and he wasn’t nineteen 


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275 


then. Curtis ought to be proud of him, instead of 
sending him nothing but furious letters for spend- 
ing too much money!” She had befriended the 
two more than once, and had given Molly her 
trousseau as well as a quantity of loving advice. 

All through dinner the conversation never flagged. 
Sara’s bright normal presence gave Janet courage. 
Why, there was freedom in the very air she 
breathed! . . . Janet thought she would tell Sara 
a little — a very little — about Denis Lorimer. Only 
she must promise not to tell Stephen. For, after all, 
Stephen was a Ponsford, and he would be certain to 
uphold Mamma. He would probably say too, that 
“Janet mustn’t be allowed to ‘make a fool of her- 
self,’ ” — it was a favorite expression of his, and it 
included all that he would have found difficult or 
impossible to do himself. Anything wild, extrav- 
agant, eccentric, or that could conceivably raise a 
smile of ridicule from his onlookers and inti- 
mates. . . . 

It was wonderful, Janet thought, how cleverly 
Sara governed him. He was so much more genial 
and human than he used to be. The eldest son, of 
whom great things had been expected, he had been 
something of a prig in his youth. 

“How long’s Johnny to be at the Grange?” he 
asked. 

“Only a little while longer. Till — Mr. Lorimer 
is well enough to be moved.” 

“And what’s been the matter with this Lorimer?” 

Janet related the story of Jimmy Nicholls’ rescue. 
Sara said at once: “A very plucky thing to do! 
Those deep places in Wanswater arc very treach- 
erous.” 

“And his left arm’s been hurt — he can’t use it,” 
added Janet quietly. Her face was flushed a little, 
and her eyes glowed with a steady light. 

“He sounds quite a hero,” said Sara, smiling. 


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“Is Johnny going back to Rome?” asked Stephen. 

“I don’t think so at present. He’s not made any 
plans yet.” 

“Did he try to convert you?” inquired Stephen, 
with another burst of Homeric laughter. 

“No . . .” 

“That’s fortunate. Mother would hardly have 
endured that!” 

Sara said: “But what’s it got to do with her? 
Surely, Janet can do as she likes.” 

“Dear Sara, you don’t know your mother-in- 
law.” Stephen mocked her with lips and eyes. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

A fter dinner Stephen retired to his study, to 
smoke and probably to snooze over the evening 
paper. Out of consideration to Janet, they had 
settled to remain at home that evening. Ordinarily 
he spent such quiet evenings with Sara, but to-night 
he took refuge in his own den. 

Sara slipped her arm in Janet’s and led her up- 
stairs to the drawing-room. She threw herself 
upon a luxuriously soft sofa, her pretty golden head 
outlined against a huge rose-pink cushion. 

Opposite to her was Janet’s demure black-clad 
figure, sitting upright in an armchair. 

“Now I’ve eot you to myself. I’m going to insist 
upon your getting some decent clothes. You can’t 
go about London in those Wanswater creations,” 
said Sara cheerfully. 

“Oh, I know I can’t. ... I shall be really grate- 
ful if you’d help me to choose some new ones,” said 
Janet. 


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277 

“Of course I’ll help you. I’ll get my own dress- 
maker to run you up a few things. By the way, I 
don’t want to keep Hodge here. Shall you mind 
if I send her back to the Grange to-morrow?” 

“Mind? I shall be so grateful — so glad. . . .” 

“There’s so little room with the children at home. 
Pamela has to have her own maid now, and she can 
give you py help you want. And Hodge is always 
tiresome in the house — makes fusses with the other 
servants.” 

“Oh, Sara — thank you — thank you 1” 

Sara saw to her astonishment that there were 
tears in Janet’s eyes. 

“Why should you thank me? I only hoped it 
wouldn’t put you out.” 

“Sara, it’s the dream of my life to get away from 
Hodge. I’m afraid of her — so dreadfully afraid. 
Mamma gives her so much power.” 

Her face was very pale, and she glanced ner- 
vously round the room as if she were actually afraid 
that Hodge might be lurking there. 

Sara noticed this and said: 

“Don’t be frightened. These walls haven’t any 
ears. Why don’t you ask your mother to send her 
away if you don’t like her?” 

Janet shook her head. “Mamma likes her to be 
there, always, to watch me. I shouldn’t dare tell 
her I was afraid — why, she might tell Hodge!” 

Sara was disagreeably impressed by these disclo- 
sures, but she tried to assure herself that Janet was 
morbidly sensitive and fanciful. What was there 
in Hodge to fear? A hard sour-faced woman, 
but surely she would never be permitted to be cruel 
and tyrannical. 

“You might have told Johnny, anyhow.” 

“I have told him . . . he’s trying to get things 
changed. The doctor — there’s a new one now 


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called Stokes — said I ought to have some one 
younger with me. And Mr. Lorimer . . She 
hesitated. 

“Yes? What about Mr. Lorimer?” said Sara 
kindly, feeling as if she were coming to the crux of 
the whole situation. 

“Sara — he seemed to understand at once how un- 
happy I was . . . how stifled . . . almost as if 
I were in prison. . . .” 

Janet did not look at Sara as she said the words. 
Her eyes were fixed upon the pretty leaping dancing 
flames of the wood-fire, and she was thinking of 
Lorimer, of what he had said to her, of how he had 
looked . . . that day kneeling on the wet grass 
beside Jimmy, for whom he had so nearly sacri- 
ficed his own life. . . . And again that evening only 
three days ago, when she had found him lying wasted 
and emaciated on the bed — when he had asked her 
to be his wife. 

“Tell me about him, won’t you, Janet?” said Sara. 

“He wants to marry me. Didn’t Mamma tell 
you ?” 

“Yes. Why’s she making so much fuss?” 

“She never liked him,” Janet admitted reluctantly. 

“Do you know why?” asked Sara. 

“Well, he’s not quite like other men — not the 
kind of man who has ever stayed at Wanswater 
with us before.” 

“Oh, I see,” said Sara. “And then of course he’s 
a lot younger than you.” 

“Yes, more than six years. But I don’t feel any 
difference. You see, I love him, Sara.” She ut- 
tered the words steadily with only a faint hesita- 
tion. “Mamma thinks he only wants my money — 
she can’t believe that any one could care for meJ^ 

“And you’re sure that he cares?” 

“Oh yes . . . even at the very beginning when he 
first arrived at the Grange with Johnny, looking 


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cold and hungry and exhausted, he noticed me, he 
was kind. ... I think I began to love him then.'’ 

‘‘Cold, hungry, exhausted. . . repeated Sara. 

“Yes — he’s very poor. He lost his job, you see, 
when he volunteered, and then when he was in Italy 
he hurt his arm and was very ill for a long time. 
Johnny met him at Euston when he was leaving for 
Wanswater and persuaded him to go with him. He 
thinks he must have been practically penniless.” 

Sara banished an involuntary inclination to adopt 
Mrs. Ponsford’s view of the case, and share her evi- 
dently well-founded belief that this man who pro- 
fessed to love poor faded Janet Ponsford was 
after her money. The little picture she had drawn 
of him gave Sara a vivid impression of the man. 
Some poor wastrel, of course ; some lame dog whom 
Johnny had picked up out of charity. But why in 
the name of fortune did not Johnny interfere and 
tell his friend that such a marriage — so unequal 
from every point of view — could not possibly be 
permitted? This Lorimer was probably a gentle- 
man by birth, since John had taken him to his own 
home, but he was obviously very poor indeed, “prac- 
tically penniless,” as Janet had admitted. He was 
younger than she was, and his health seemed to be 
almost in as precarious a state as her own. What 
had brought him to this pass of penury? There 
must have been something, surely, to account for the 
degringolade. Drink, in all probability; it was this 
that submerged nine-tenths of the men who went 
under. 

She looked at Janet, and her heart ached a little. 
It seemed on the face of it such a hopeless business. 
But she was resolved to be impartial ; she would not 
judge Lorimer till she had seen him, spoken to him. 

Janet rose suddenly and came across to where Sara 
was sitting. She knelt on the floor near her and 
took Sara’s hands in hers. “Sara — you must help 


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me. John doesn’t say much, but I feel he’s against 
it, too. I’ve no one except Denis, and I’ve had to 
go away without seeing him — he’ll think I’ve 
listened to Mamma and given him up. . . .” 

“Oh, they didn’t even let you say good-bye?” 

It was astonishing to Sara, that terrible submission 
of Janet’s to Mrs. Ponsford’s will. Just as if she 
had been a child. . . . 

“I promised not to see him if they’d only let him 
stay till he was better. Mamma wanted to send 
him over to Kenstone in a motor-ambulance the very 
day after we were engaged. I knew it would kill 
him, so I offered not to see him, not to speak to him 
again. But it was terrible this morning just before 
I left. . . He sent the nurse down to ask me to go 
up and see him, but Mamma wouldn’t release me 
from my promise. I felt as if my heart were being 
torn out of my body.” 

Sara bent down, and taking Janet’s face lightly 
in her two hands, kissed her. “I’ll help you, 
Janet,” she said, “ if you’re quite sure this marriage 
will be for your happiness. You see, I don’t know 
your Denis, and all the circumstances, you must own, 
do offer some justification for Mrs. Ponsford’s ob- 
jections. Where did Johnny originally meet him?” 

“In Rome, I think,” said Janet. 

“He’s a Catholic, I suppose.” 

“Yes. . . . Not a very good one . . . but I 
think he went to confession the night they thought 
he was dying.” She related again with a wealth of 
detail the story of his plucky rescue of little Jimmy 
Nicholls. “It was so brave of him— if he hadn’t 
been there Jimmy would have been drowned. 
Wanswater’s very deep just at that point, and he 
isn’t strong, and the ice-cold water ... it was so 
long, too, before he could change his wet clothes.” 

There was a touch of hero-worship, then, in this 
strange tardy love of hers. Bewildered, Sara said : 


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281 


“Perhaps the less we talk about it before Stephen 
the better. Of course, he’s dying with curiosity. . . . 
You Ponsfords are dreadfully clanny when danger 
threatens any of you !” 

“Only — this isn’t danger,” said Janet, and her 
eyes shone. 

Sara reserved her opinion upon that point. She 
must first of all see Lorimer and know what type of 
man this was who had so speedily captured Janet’s 
untried heart. She flattered herself that she was a 
quick and accurate reader of character — that I.or- 
imer would prove as easy to her as an open 
book. . . . 

“I’d like you to see him, to know him, Sara.” 

“That’s just what I want to do, my dear Janet. 
He must come here when he leaves Wanswater. 
When’s that likely to be?” 

“I don’t know. But Mamma didn’t want him to 
be there when Violet and Cosmo go for Christmas.” 

“They’re not going,” said Sara. “Cosmo re- 
fused, and Violet of course won’t go without him. I 
expect they’ve telegraphed by this time. When do 
you think Mr Lorimer will be fit to travel?” 

“Not for some weeks. The idea was to send 
him to a hospital at Kenstone. Sara — he’ll be del- 
icate for a long time. And I want to be sure that 
he has lots of things to eat, and proper nursing. 
And no one seems to care except Johnny. . . .” 

“Well, Janet, I am going to do a very rash thing. 
When the children’s holidays are over I shall have 
him here. Pamela is going to Paris for a month 
with the Cullingdons after Christmas, so she’ll be 
out of the way. Will that do?” 

“Oh, Sara, of course it will do I How could 
you think of such a lovely plan?” 

“It may be lovely, but I’ve an idea it’s a very 
imprudent one. However, something must be 
done.” 


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‘‘He doesn’t even know where I am,” said Janet, 
“unless, of course, Johnny’s told him. But Johnny’s 
very odd about it ; he says very little, yet I know he 
can’t bear the thought of it.” 

“I’ll write to Mr. Lorimer myself,” said Sara, 
“and ask him to come when he’s better. Let me 
see — he might come about the fifth for a week at any 
rate. Pamela will have gone to Paris, and Gilbert 
is to stay with a friend in Hampshire. I think he 
ought to be well enough to come by then.” 

“But they’ll know your writing at Wanswater — 
they’ll suspect something. ...” 

“You goose — the envelope shall be typewritten.” 

Janet breathed a sigh of relief. “You are clever, 
Sara. Do you think I might put in one little line?” 

“Yes, if that’s allowed by the terms of your agree- 
ment !” 

“Yes — I never promised not to write.” 

“Be careful what you say,” said Sara. She felt 
that she had perhaps been more sentimental than wise 
in consenting. But Janet must learn self-confidence, 
otherwise this man would certainly use her as a door- 
mat. She repressed that steadily-growing inclin- 
ation to doubt Lorimer’s sincerity. A needy ad- 
venturer probably, one who had aroused Johnny’s 
well-known ardor to capture the straying sheep and 
bring it back to the fold. So foolish of dear Johnny 
to bring his straying black sheep to Wanswater! 
But the mischief was done now, and if Denis Lor- 
imer really intended to marry Janet, married they 
would certainly be, to the great discomfiture of 
Giles. . . . 

“Hodge mustn’t know about it,” said Janet; “you 
see, she’d tell Mamma; there’d be an awful fuss. 
Mamma would probably influence Stephen. . . .” 

Sara’s face grew serious. “I don’t mind your 
being afraid of your mother — considering the way 
she brought you up, it’s only what she deserves! 


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But I can’t have you afraid of Hodge, my dear 
Janet !” 

“But I’ve been afraid of her ever since I was a 
little girl.” 

“But you’re not a little girl any more, and it’s bad 
for your character — ^your will — to cherish a fear of 
that kind.” 

“When I’m ill, she treats me like a little girl . . . 
she’s so rough that she often hurts me, and I’m sure 
she does it on purpose. I’m so afraid of those 
attacks, Sara, for when I wake up Hodge is always 
there, generally giving me injections to bring me 
round. I’m in her power then. . . .” 

“Have you been ill lately?” inquired Sara. 

“Twice since Mr Lorimer came. The first time, 
he carried me down to my room. . . .” 

“Oh, he knows, then?” said Sara, feeling slightly 
relieved. It would not have been quite fair, she 
thought, to keep him in the dark. But if he’d seen 
her in that helpless unconscious state and still per- 
sisted, he would only have himself to thank or to 
blame. 

Janet flushed a little. “Yes — he knows. It 
didn’t make any difference, except he thought the 
treatment was all wrong and said so. He’s seen 
lots of queer cases of unconsciousness in France — 
he thought once of being a doctor.” 

Lorimer might be one of two things, Sara 
reflected — a quixotic individual who desired to rescue 
this unfortunate Andromeda bound hand and foot 
to the rock of parental authority, or he was simply 
a crafty and impecunious adventurer bent on appro- 
priating her money. Her worldly mind, it must be 
confessed, was strongly in favor of the latter theory. 
She couldn’t bring herself to believe that a young 
man of twenty-nine could really feel a chivalrous 
love for this pitiful childlike, faded creature. . . . 

But her compassion for Janet was so keen that it 


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smote her like a sharp physical pang. She couldn’t 
even now believe that any happiness of a permanent 
solid kind could await her. It was pitiful — this 
pathetic combination of an untried, passionate heart, 
and the elderly dowdy creature from whose ex- 
terior appearance all semblance of youth had pre- 
maturely vanished. 

She had known her for sixteen years, had seen 
her first when she was not quite twenty, and even 
then Janet had never looked like a young girl. 

She thought: “John ought to have converted her, 
and then she might have become a nun — she would 
have been happy in a convent.” Sara held the con- 
ventional idea that a nun need possess no attractive 
qualities of character or intellect — an idea that 
Charles Kingsley did a good deal to crystalize by 
his lines: 


I was not good enough for man, 

And so was given to God. . . . 

She was not aware that in Catholic families it is 
often the flower of the flock, the pretty gay, en- 
chanting daughter, that receives that urgent spirit- 
ual impulse, incontrovertible, irresistible, that is 
known as a religious vocation, triumphing over 
all earthly enticements and promise of temporal 
prizes. . . . 

“What sort of looking man is Mr. Lorimer?” 
she asked. 

“Very handsome,” said Janet, who had no talent 
for describing people. “Tall — very tall — taller 
than John. With odd thick black hair pushed right 
off his forehead. I think it was perhaps the way he 
wore his hair that first prejudiced Mamma against 
him.” 

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” subjoined Sara. 

“And large dark eyes . . .” continued Janet. 


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“But he’s very thin; since his illness he looks quite 
wasted — when I saw him he was almost . . . ugly.” 
She paused before uttering the word. “And his 
arm ... it was bad luck, wasn’t it, getting it hurt 
so badly that he’ll never use it again? Worse for 
a poor man . . . and then not having it hurt in the 
War. I don’t know how it happened, but it wasn’t 
very long ago, while he was in Italy. Denis has 
lived a lot in Italy; he speaks Italian well. He was 
there with his father as a little boy.” 

“And where’s his father now?” asked Sara. 

“Oh, he’s been dead a long time, and his mother 
died when he was a little child. He never had 
any brothers or sisters.” 

“When did he ask you to marry him?” 

“It was the day I first went to see him after he 
was so ill. He was a little better, out of danger, 
they said, and he asked me to go. The nurse came 
down to fetch me ... I told him I’d been praying 
for him, and he said in a curious changed voice, ^So 
you did careT And when I said yes, he asked me 
to marry him. . . She looked up at Sara with 
grave shining eyes. “It was a wonderful moment,” 
she added simply. 

“I’m sure it was,” agreed Sara, with unconscious 
dryness. “And you promised — there and then?” 

“Yes, Sara. . . .” 

“You must have guessed what Mrs. Ponsford 
would say. . . .” 

“Yes,” said Janet. “I knew she would be very 
angry.” 

“You didn’t think that perhaps she was right?” 
suggested Sara. 

Janet shook her head. “How could she be? 
She doesn’t really know Denis at all. . . .” 

There was a little pause, during which Sara 
occupied herself by trying to put together Janet’s 
somewhat unilluminating shreds of description in 


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order to form some kind of mental picture of Denis 
Lorimer. But the task was beyond her. Of course 
he must have heroic qualities, although the action 
of plunging into the lake had been almost forced 
upon him. He was the only spectator of adult age 
present, and what man can wilfully let a small boy 
drown before his eyes and make no effort to rescue 
him? Still, for a man who was practically one- 
armed it had been a clever feat of strength and 
courage. Sara was too strong a woman to have an 
exaggerated admiration for mere physical courage 
in a man; she possessed plenty herself and knew 
how greatly it was a matter of controlled and highly 
disciplined nerves. But to Janet, of course Lor- 
imer’s action must have appeared unique and wholly 
heroic. 

“Mamma called him a mountebank,” said Janet 
presently; “I didn’t know what it meant, so I looked 
it out in the dictionary. It said it was an itinerant 
quack who addressed the crowd from a platform. 
It didn’t seem to fit Denis at all. . . 

Sara laughed. 

“Well, it’s setting late, and I expect you’re tired. 
Come into the study and have something to drink 
before you go to bed.” 

They went downstairs to find a sleepy Stephen, 
who roused himself at their approach. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

S ARA’S letter to Lorimer was very brief. “My 
sister-in-law is staying with us in London for the 
present. If you are well enough to come for a few 
days on the 5th of January, we shall be very glad to 
see you.” 


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287 


She showed the letter to Janet. 

“I’m so afraid he won’t come. It was different 
for him to stay with us, he’d known Johnny so well, 
but he’s poor, he may not like to stay in this rich 
house.” 

Janet looked round Sara’s little sitting-room as 
she spoke. It was exquisitely furnished, with all 
the clear and bright coloring of modern decoration. 
Sara changed it nearly every year. Janet found it 
difficult to picture Denis there, with his shabby 
clothes and mended boots. Only, wherever he was, 
he managed, in her eyes at least, to look like a 
king. ... 

“Oh, nonsense,” said Sara, “if he wishes to marry 
you he must naturally be prepared to stay with your 
relations. We aren’t so very formidable, are we?” 
And she laughed gaily. 

Janet did not dare give any further explanation. 
She knew that Sara preferred rich opulent people 
who lived their lives on the same lines as herself, or 
perhaps even on more luxurious ones. She wasn’t 
fond of lame dogs. 

“And now if you’ll give me your letter I will put 
it in mine,” said Sara. 

Janet produced the letter. Writing was easier 
to her than speaking, it gave her more time to collect 
and arrange her thoughts. The letter, she felt, 
was a nice one. Perhaps Lorimer would answer it. 
She had a great wish to hear from him; she won- 
dered what his handwriting was like. 

Sara enclosed the letter in a typewritten envelope, 
and attached the stamp, first moistening it with a 
tiny sponge affixed to a delicate gold handle. All 
Sara’s appurtenances were dainty and valuable. 
Janet looked almost with envy at the exquisite writ- 
ing-table so beautifully appointed down to its small- 
est detail. 

Sara thought her own letter sufficiently friendly. 


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and yet it would show Denis that Janet had rich 
powerful relations to whom her welfare was of 
importance, and who made her interests their own. 
He should see her in a very different environment 
from that of the Grange, and he would soon learn 
that if his object was only to possess himself of her 
money, steps would be taken to prevent the mar- 
riage. 

Hodge had left for Wanswater that morning, 
morose and resentful. She was obdurate at first, 
assuring Sara that she had received no instructions 
from Mrs. Ponsford to leave “Miss Janet” alone in 
London. 

“She’s not alone, she’s with me,” said Sara. 
“And I’m sorry I really can’t have you here, Hodge ; 
there isn’t room. Besides, I think Miss Janet wants 
a complete change. I know you’re very faithful 
and all that, but you’re inclined to overdo it. You 
don’t give her room to breathe in. I thought I 
should like to look after her myself for a while.” 

“One of her attacks is about due now,” said 
Hodge darkly, “and after a journey she generally 
gets a baddish one.” 

“Well, there are excellent physicians in London, 
you know, Hodge, if she does happen to get ill,” 
rejoined Sara, in her bright decisive way. 

“I’m afraid Mrs. Ponsford will be very much 
annoyed. She particularly didn’t want Miss Janet 
to be away alone, for fear Mr. Lorimer should fol- 
low her up here when he’s better.” 

“I really can’t argue with you, Hodge. Please 
tell Mrs. Ponsford that I’m taking all responsi- 
bility, and Miss Janet shall have every attention.” 

Sara had one quality in common with the 
Ponsfords^ — an iron will. One did not always im- 
mediately recognize this characteristic in her, for 
her exterior appearance suggested only a bright 
charm, an adroit knowledge of how to emphasize 


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289 

her own good points, and a serene temper when 
things under her hand were working smoothly. But 
Hodge at that moment began to recognize qualities 
in “Mrs. Stephen” for which she was no match. 

She departed for Wanswater, washing her hands 
of so uncompromising and unusual a situation. 

Janet betrayed few signs of anxiety in the days 
that followed, and she had evidently no doubt that 
Lorimer’s desire to see her again must be at least 
as great as her own to receive him. Sara, on the 
other hand, reflected that if he did not wish to 
abide by his rash proposal, he could now find a 
reasonable loophole of escape. So much tacit hos- 
tility and opposition, this departure of Janet’s with- 
out a single farewell word, his own physical weak- 
ness when the offer was made, might all, she con- 
sidered, be quite justly adduced as fair reasons for 
“crying off.” She did not tell Janet so, but when 
some days had passed and no answer had come from 
Wanswater, she began to feel a genuine anxiety as 
to the outcome. Lorimer’s defalcation would pro- 
duce nothing but relief in the Ponsford family — a 
relief which Sara could not bring herself not to 
share — but it would indeed go ill with Janet if he 
played false. There was something so complete and 
complacent in Janet’s belief in his love for her. 
Even Mrs. Ponsford’s “bludgeon blows” had done 
nothing to modify it. 

Sara found a letter with the Wanswater postmark 
on it, a few days later, reposing with her usual 
morning heap on the breakfast-table. She really 
preferred to breakfast in her own room and only 
partook of that meal downstairs in order to see that 
Pamela had everything she wanted. To the less 
partial observer there was small likelihood of such 
a calamity as insufficient food befalling Pamela, but 
Sara was far too good a mother to leave anything 
to chance. 


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Janet breakfasted in her own room. Sara had 
recommended this course, assuring her that she 
would find nothing to do if she came down so early. 
The extra rest would be good for her. There 
would be lots of time to do the shopping if she 
were ready by eleven. 

Pamela opened her mother’s letters for her, when 
she was down sufficiently early, with a little silver 
paper-cutter. She picked up Lorimer’s and exam- 
ined it. 

“Who’s that from? I don’t know the writing. 
Wanswater postmark too.” She scrutinized it. 

“It’s from Mr. Lorimer probably,” said Sara 
taking it from her. “I’ve asked him to come in 
January when you and Gilbert are both away.” 

“Why when we’re away? We’re dying to 
see him. Aren’t we, Gilbert?” She turned her 
head towards her brother, who had just come into 
the room. 

Gilbert was a thin, slight boy, much more like 
the Ponsfords than his sister, for he had their blue 
eyes, their fairish hair. 

“Aren’t we what. Fatty?” he asked. 

“Dying to see our future Uncle Denis.” 

“Yes, I want to know the worst,” said Gilbert 
with cool impertinence. “Bit of a bounder, T think, 
from what Cosmo says. Not that he’s seen him, 
but Aunt Violet’s had a furious letter from Gran. 
She says she’s glad she refused to go down there 
for Christmas, there’ll be such a turmoil.” 

While making this speech he had embraced his 
parents and Pamela severally, and taken his seat at 
the table. 

“Fatty, you’ve eaten all the cream I And it’s very 
bad for your figure. You’re an awful lump — soon 
no one will want to dance with you !” 

Sara and Pamela said respectively but simul- 
taneously: 


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291 


“Ring for some more,’’ and “Oh, yes they will.’’ 

Stephen seldom took part in breakfast conver- 
sation; he was generally too deeply immersed in 
the Times, ^nd the latest pronouncements of the 
Prime Minister, as well as that page, consecrated 
in all properly conducted newspapers, to Finance, the 
City, and the price of Stocks. But he liked to know 
that Sara was sitting opposite to him as faultlessly 
arrayed as if she were going to receive her smartest 
friends, and that his two handsome, healthy chil- 
dren were one on each side of him. There was 
something cheerful about the scene that deprived 
the gray, chilly December day of something of its 
grayness, its chilliness. 

He pricked up his ears when he heard Lorimer’s 
name. 

“Asked him here ! But, my dearest Sara, what on 
earth made you do that? You know she was sent 
here to be out of his way.” He looked genuinely 
alarmed, for even at fifty years of age he had filial 
qualms about resisting his mother’s authority. 

“I want to see him for myself,” replied Sara, 
“and I thought the best thing to do was to ask him 
to stay with us. It’s not fair to Janet to drive her 
into a hole-and-corner business.” 

“Hear, hear,” said Pamela, between mouthfuls of 
scrambled eggs. 

Sara took up Lorimer’s letter and scanned it. It 
was written in pencil and the handwriting was weak 
and somewhat illegible. The contents were simple 
and straightforward enough, and gave Sara a better 
impression of the man than any she had hitherto 
entertained. 

“Dear Mrs. Ponsford,” the letter ran, “I can only 
say I thank you from my heart. When I leave 
here (it will be quite soon, for I am left in no 
doubt as to my hostess’s feelings on the subject) I 
shall go to London. If you will really let me stay 


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with you, that will be a great solution of my diffi- 
culties. I shall place myself unreservedly in your 
hands, and thank you for the opportunity you will 
give me of seeing Janet again and arranging with 
her the date of our marriage. I am sure from the 
kindness of your letter that you will help us both.” 

“Let’s see the letter, Mum,” said Pamela, putting 
out her hand. 

“Your father must read it first,” said Sara, hand- 
ing it across the table to her husband. 

“Bags I next,” said Gilbert. 

Pamela snorted. “Pm older than you,” she 
reminded him. 

“It’ll be simply awful if he is such a bounder as 
Cosmo seems to think,” remarked Gilbert rather 
lugubriously. He hoped they would not take it 
into their heads to visit him at school. He was to 
go to Eton after Easter, and they might want to 
come down for the Fourth of June. With the snob- 
bishness of extreme youth, he felt his heart sink at 
the prospect. 

Stephen threw the letter down on the table, 
whence it was immediately retrieved by Pamela. 

“Not bad. Rather too gushing, though,” she 
said coolly. “Still, Aunt Janet’s old-fashioned, 
she’ll like it. Gush and sentiment and all that kind 
of tosh.” 

Stephen, perhaps actuated by Sara’s example, be- 
gan to finger his own letters. He had early discov- 
ered the unwisdom of allowing Pamela to interfere 
with them; he had certain innocent financial secrets 
which he fondly imagined he had succeeded in keep- 
ing from the knowledge of his wife and daughter. 
They humored him in this flattering belief. 

“By Jove — -there’s one from the mater,” he said. 

He opened it and glanced at its contents. “She’s 
awfully annoyed with you for sending Hodge back,” 
he said, wondering why he had never been able to 


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293 

teach Sara the family creed that Mrs. Ponsford 
must never be contradicted or thwarted. 

“I knew she would be. All the same, I really 
couldn’t have that woman here, terrorizing poor 
Janet into an attack.” 

She had always held an adverse view of Hodge; 
this was attributed to an airy antagonism she mali- 
ciously displayed towards anything that the Pons- 
fords regarded as specially sacred, among their 
own personal belongings. Nor did she feel it any 
part of her duty to humor old Mrs. Ponsford when 
she saw clearly that she was in the wrong. Sara 
had always pitied Janet, although it was only lately 
that her compassion had taken a practical form, and 
showed itself in a strong desire to befriend her. 

“Janet’s been ever so much better since Hodge 
left. Even those few days have made a difference.” 

This cumulative fear had been growing, she be- 
lieved, ever since Janet’s delicate and ill-managed 
childhood. Doubtless in its earlier stages it was the 
result of the sheer physical terror which a strong 
coarse woman can excite in a frail shrinking child. 
Janet, weak and sensitive, accepted the rule that 
“she must obey Hodge like a good little girl or 
else she would have to be punished,” and she had 
never dared to complain. She was like one wander- 
ing in a blind alley. The only way was to endure, 
and sometimes you fell asleep — quite suddenly in the 
daytime — and even Hodge couldn’t punish you when 
you were asleep. Once or twice she had dreamed 
that Hodge had stabbed her when she was thus 
sleeping, so sharply, too, that it had wakened her. 
It was only as she grew older that Janet realized 
the stab meant the administration of a hypodermic 
injection. . . . Much of this Janet had confessed to 
Sara’s wise, sane ears, since her arrival in London. 

Sara had thought indignantly : “How can people 
permit such things? Fancy allowing such a terror 


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as that to crystallize. . . . Why, such a thing could 
never have happened to Pamela — she would have 
told me, and we should have laid the ghost to- 
gether.” 

It was curious that she should so often think of 
Janet not as an elderly faded woman, nervous and 
timid, but as a little injured girl. 

“Let’s hear what your mother says, Stephen,” said 
Sara. Of course she had known that Mrs. Ponsford 
would not take the return of Hodge “lying down.” 
It would result, if not in a declaration of war, at 
least in an abrupt temporary severance of diplomatic 
relations. 

“Quite apart from Janet, I didn’t want to have 
Hodge here,” she continued, scanning her mother- 
in-law’s letter. “She always sets the other servants 
by the ears. I can’t imagine why your mother keeps 
the woman.” 

“Oh, she thinks all the world of her,” said 
Stephen, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He didn’t 
of course believe that Hodge could really terrorize 
Janet as Sara seemed to suggest; it would be absurd 
to imagine such a thing as that to be possible “in 
the twentieth century,” as he would have expressed 
it. And then his mother had always said that Janet 
wanted a “firm hand over her,” to prevent her from 
doing very stupid and imprudent things that would 
certainly affect her health. He had sometimes 
thought that Janet was kept a little too strictly, but 
supposed it must be all right, since the reasons given 
for the procedure seemed so excellent and plausible. 
He had not supposed that Janet had suffered under 
the treatment, since she had never been known to 
complain. 

There was no reference to Mr. Lorimer in Mrs. 
Ponsford’s letter, an omission which struck Sara as 
rather significant, since the last one had been so 


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295 


full of him. The vision of a humiliated Hodge, 
returning in obedience to Sara’s high-handed decree, 
had evidently driven lesser grievances quite out of 
the old lady’s mind. 

“Well, you did if off your own bat, and I suppose 
you knew what you were doing,” said Stephen, feel- 
ing a trifle dejected. He didn’t want to be mixed 
up in this affair of Janet’s at all, and wished he 
could have made his wife observe a similar absten- 
tion. If things turned out badly — as they certainly 
would, if Janet married this adventurer — they 
would be blamed all round for encouraging the 
affair. 

Pamela had finished her breakfast, and now rose 
from the table. 

“I shall go up and see Aunt Janet,” she an- 
nounced; “she’ll want to hear what Mr. Lorimer 
says. Shall I take the letter up to her?” 

“You can if you like,” said Sara. 

Gilbert said: “What are we going to do to-day? 
It’s awful rot spending Christmas in London. We 
ought to have gone to Switzerland, or to the South 
of France with Aunt Violet. There’s simply noth- 
ing to do.” 

“I can’t take you abroad this year,” said Sara; 
“and it’s no use letting you and Pamela go with 
other people. You only stay up till all hours danc- 
ing, and come back looking perfect wrecks.” 

She followed her daughter out of the room. 
Janet’s affairs were perturbing her a good deal, and 
she would have been glad to go abroad with the 
children and forget all about them. But having 
put her hand to the plough, she was resolved not to 
look back. If Lorimer proved in any way possible, 
she was determined to see the thing through to its 
logical termination. A wedding in Westminster 
Cathedral, perhaps, as Pamela had suggested. . . . 


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CHAPTER XXVIII 

C HRISTMAS came and went, and no further 
news had been received from Wanswater. 
After the New Year, Sara busied herself with 
choosing clothes for Janet. She wanted her to look 
as nice as possible when Lorimer arrived. Pamela’s 
maid did her hair, and made the most of the abun- 
dant auburn locks, which looked quite glossy and 
burnished under these practiced ministrations. Sara 
would have imparted one or two innocent little 
secrets of the toilette, especially in regard to the 
complexion, but she came to the conclusion that 
Janet wasn’t of the type that looked well even with 
those very slight aids to beauty. Besides, if 
Lorimer had liked that old-fashioned simplicity of 
hers and recognized its sterling qualities of fidelity 
and devotion, he wouldn’t want to come and find her 
too much changed. Dresses, of course, she must 
have, and the new clothes, chosen with all Sara’s 
skill and forethought — her taste in the matter of 
dress and decoration being really remarkable — 
proved extremely becoming to Janet. 

She had been perfectly well since coming to Lon- 
don. Hodge’s dark prognostications had so far 
remained unfulfilled. She was looking forward 
tremulously, but with unshaken faith, to Lorimer’s 
arrival. The fifth of January was drawing near, 
but he had not as yet written to say on which day 
he would arrive. 

Pamela had left for Paris, and Gilbert had gone 
to Hampshire to stay with his school-friend. The 
house was rather silent without the children, and 
Janet missed them. They were always pleasant and 
affectionate to her, and she found their company 
stimulating and amusing. But, evidently, Sara did 
not wish them to be there when Denis came; per- 


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297 

haps she was afraid that they might voice their 
opinion of him too openly. 

Sara and Janet were sitting alone in the draw- 
ing-room one evening after tea. They had been 
shopping all the afternoon, and both were tired. 
It was raining, and they could hear the great drops 
splashing on the windows. A strong wind was 
blowing. 

The door opened and the manservant’s voice an- 
nounced : 

“Father John Ponsford.” 

Janet sprang to her feet and ran eagerly towards 
her brother. He stooped and kissed her saying:, 
“Well, my dear Jane ...” 

Sara watched them. Then she held out her hand 
to John. 

“What a night for you to come! Did you leave 
Wanswater to-day?” 

“Last night. I came up from Kenstone by the 
night mail.” 

“Well, what news?” asked Sara brightly. “I 
hope Mrs. Ponsford’s well.” 

“Quite well, thank you,” said John. 

“And Mr. Lorimer?” 

“He’s better. He left two days ago . . . before 
I did, in fact.” 

“Oh 1” . . . Janet breathed sharply. Denis had 
left Wanswater! Why had he not written to say 
so — to tell them that he was free and could come? 
She glanced sharply at Sara, whose calm face be- 
trayed no surprise or anxiety. 

“I’m sorry Stephen won’t be in this evening,” 
said Sara, “but of course you must stay and dine. 
Where did you say Mr. Lorimer had gone?” 

“He didn’t leave any address,” admitted John. 

He looked at the two women, and felt vaguely 
glad to think they seemed on such friendly intimate 
terms. A change of this kind would do Janet good. 


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298 

John liked Sara, indeed she was a general favorite 
with all the family. A little worldly perhaps, but 
she had a fund of common sense in her pretty little 
head. A bold move of hers — that of sending 
Hodge summarily back to Wanswater. 

“But, Johnny, why did he go like that without 
telling you? You — you haven’t quarreled with 
him?” 

“No, indeed I haven’t,” said John. “But he 
seemed to want to go, although Stokes said it was 
a risk. I wanted him to wait and come with me 
to-day, but he wouldn’t. To tell you the truth, 
I thought I might find him here.” 

“No, he hasn’t been here,” said Sara; “I asked 
him to stay, you know.” 

Janet cried: “Oh, you shouldn’t have let him 
go like that! You know he hasn’t any money.” 

John looked at her. “Yes, he had some money,” 
he said. 

Sara, listening, felt that fresh and ambiguous 
complications were still further darkening the hori- 
zon. She could see that Janet was alarmed and 
anxious. 

“Did Mamma say anything to him?” said Janet. 
She was very white now, and Sara noticed that her 
hands were shaking. 

“Yes,” said John, rather reluctantly. 

“About me?” 

John nodded. “She told him quite clearly that he 
wasn’t to marry you, and she forbade him to try 
to see you. I’m awfully sorry, Janet, — I would 
have prevented it if I could. You needn’t go home 
again till you wish to. I’m settling about going to 
Gillingsea — there’s a cottage quite handy where you 
can live, and the air’s good.” His voice was very 
tender; he was offering her far more than she 
knew. 


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But she brushed aside the issue with extraordinary 
impatience. 

“Fm not thinking of myself, Johnny. Do you 
suppose I care what becomes of me? Fm thinking 
of Denis, alone and ill . . . and poor.” She spoke 
with unusual passion. 

Sara listened, and as she listened all her mis- 
givings deepened. There was something so in- 
tensely mysterious about the personality of this 
man, and all she heard of him only served to deepen 
it. And with this mystery, she felt there was a 
touch of something sinister. She could not tell ex- 
actly when or why she had received that impression. 
She longed to see him, in the hope that he might 
dispel these shadowy suspicions and create a clear 
and lucid and normal situation. 

“Dear Jane, he’ll soon get something to do. I 
shall help him to find a job. He’s a clever linguist 
— men like that can always get work.” His tone 
was firm, but he was nearly at the end of his tether. 
He had seen Lorimer leave Wanswater in a white- 
hot and wholly unreasonable passion of anger, and 
had been powerless to restrain him from doing so. 

Janet broke in: “Mamma can’t separate us . . . 
Fve told Sara — she knows everything 1 And you’re 
not against it, are you, Sara ?” 

“I can’t form any opinion till Fve seen Mr. Lor- 
imer. But I want to see him — I want to help you 
if I can.” Sara spoke in a cool decided tone. 

John said bitterly: “He’s six years younger than 
Janet, and he hasn’t a penny in the world. You 
must admit that my mother’s only taking ordinary 
precautions. You’ve a daughter of your own, 
Sara.” 

Janet said: “Fd rather he had my money than 
any one in the world 1 Fd give it all to him to- 
morrow if I could . . .” 


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“That is childish,” said Sara ; “women don’t give 
their money to impecunious young men unless they 
arc fools. If you want me to help you, Janet, you 
must be sensible!” 

She was thinking: “He can’t care for her . . . 
it must be the money. And they’re all quite 
right. . . . 

Her words silenced Janet, as she intended that 
they should. Perhaps, after all, she had done wrong 
to interfere in the matter at all. The Ponsfords 
were not acting unreasonably, and it was quite evi- 
dent that the glamor of Mr. Lorimer’s ambiguous 
personality had not cast its spell upon them. 

Perhaps they had not reckoned upon encounter- 
ing resistance from Janet. But she, the delicate, the 
nervous, the cowed, was ready to fight for her love 
and happiness now. It seemed to imbue her with 
a strange new strength. Away from Wanswater, 
and without Hodge, she was a new creature of un- 
suspected violence and obstinacy. 

Then there supervened one of those dramatic 
moments which are certainly much more common in 
every-day life than is generally supposed. The door 
was again flung open, and this time the servant’s 
voice announced: “Mr. Denis Lorimer.” 

Janet and John sprang up quickly; relief was on 
both their faces, for John had felt a disquieting 
anxiety about Lorimer, ever since he had shaken 
the dust of the Grange from his feet two days ago. 
He had been in a reckless turbulent mood, had re- 
fused to listen to John’s kindly words, and had 
snatched the proffered money as if he had been 
conferring a favor on him by accepting it, depart- 
ing thereafter into the unknown, with scarcely a 
word of farewell. 

Denis had expected to see Janet and perhaps Mrs. 
Stephen Ponsford, whose letter had been kind and 
friendly. But he had not expected to see John’s 


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tall black-clad figure, and the sight deprived him a 
little of his self-possession. He paused for a second 
near the door, as if his feet refused to carry him 
any further into the room. 

Sara rose and came towards him. She was calm, 
self-possessed, with a little touch of haughtiness in 
her manner. She gave him a quick scrutinizing 
glance. She saw a tall lean man, with a pale ema- 
ciated face, dark eyes, and very dark hair that was 
slightly tumbled. At first sight he did not look 
very young, not appreciably younger than Janet. 
But illness had perhaps given him that thin worn 
appearance. Illness . . . and poverty. 

“Queer-looking, like an actor out of work,” was 
Sara’s first impression. “What can Janet see in 
him?” 

The word mountebank recurred to her mind with 
unpleasant insistence. But what had made John 
take this straying sheep to Wanswater? 

Lorimer recovered himself, shook hands with 
Sara, then greeted the brother and sister. 

“Well, John? Well, Janet?” He gave them 
each his hand in turn, and for a second his eyes 
met Janet’s. He smiled feebly. Sara’s calm as- 
sured manner made him a little nervous. The un- 
expected atmosphere of wealth had also astonished 
him. One did not readily associate the Ponsfords 
with the more opulent and complicated forms of 
luxury. Sara’s house was very perfectly appointed. 
Compared to the overflowing rooms at the Grange, 
her drawing-room might have been considered a 
little bare, but every piece of furniture or china 
would probably have proved of priceless value if 
examined by a connoisseur. 

And in Sara, Denis readily recognized the modern 
woman of the world, clear-sighted, free from all 
illusions, sane, balanced, almost cruelly normal. 

“Do sit down, Mr. Lorimer,” said Sara, 


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“you’ve been very ill, I’m afraid. And this is bad 
weather for you to be out in.” 

She sat on the sofa, and to her left Lorimer 
leaned back in an armchair just vacated by John. 
John sat between him and Janet, whose face was 
averted. Silence fell upon the little group. 

“I’ve been expecting to hear from you, to say 
when you were coming to stay with us,” said Sara. 
She wished she could have been alone with Denis, 
it would have been easier to talk to him then. 

“I wasn’t sure if you still wished to have me. 
After what Mrs. Ponsford said — ” He broke off 
abruptly, and then he looked at Janet. Had she 
changed? Was she going to sacrifice him? But 
the mute averted figure did not stir or respond. 

“I’m so utterly in the dark!” he cried suddenly. 
“Won’t any of you speak?” 

The voice was soft, almost womanish, and full 
of appeal. Sara realized that he was suffering. . . . 
She felt sorry for him. Then a sudden impulse of 
distrust banished the momentary compassion. Was 
the man acting? She could not tell. But he was 
at a disadvantage, uncertain of his welcome. . . . 
She must remember that. 

John was silent. His face was very calm and 
impassive. Janet crouched a little closer to the 
fire, as if she felt mortally cold. Sara rose and 
touched her lightly on the shoulder. 

“Janet, dear, I want you to leave us for a little. 
Come with me,” she said in a kind firm tone. 

Janet stood up and allowed Sara to lead her 
to the door. As she passed Lorimer, he snatched 
her hand for a second and held it crushed in his 
own. The gesture comforted her. The sudden 
sight of him had unnerved her; she was glad to go 
away. . . . 

“You shall come back — you shall see him,” whis- 


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303 


pered Sara, as they stood facing each other on the 
square landing outside. “Are you all right, dear 
Janet? You don’t feel faint or anything?” 

“No — no! I’m quite all right, Sara. But prom- 
ise that you won’t let him go* till I’ve seen him 
again. . . .” 

“I promise, Janet,” said Sara. She put her arms 
around Janet and kissed her. She rarely displayed 
any demonstrative affection, and Janet was touched 
by the embrace. 

“Sara — dear Sara, you’ll be kind to him won’t 
you?” 

“Yes, yes,” Sara assured her. 

She went back into the drawing-room. Janet 
paused for a second and then went up to her room. 

John rose as Sara came back. “I daresay you’d 
like to have a talk with Lorimer alones I’ll go 
down and have a smoke in the study.” 

He went downstairs. The situation seemed to 
him pretty hopeless, but he could trust Sara to deal 
with it adequately. 

“Now, Mr. Lorimer!” said Sara encouragingly. 

She drew her chair nearer the fire. Outside, the 
wind howled dismally, with its harsh winter voice, 
and the rain slashed the windows with sav'ag.e vio- 
lence. 

Denis was silent and ill at ease. His shabby 
boots looked more than ever shabby in Sara’s charm- 
ing, perfect room. 

“Where have* you been staying since you left 
Wanswater ?” 

“I’ve got a room with a friend. I’m pretty hard 
up, as I suppose they’ve told you.” 

She noticed then for the first time the* straight 
stiff way in which his left arm hung helplessly. She 
wondered how he had come by such a disabling 
wound. Janet had told her that he had not re- 


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ceived it in the War. It made another point of 
mystery in addition to so much that was already 
n^ysterious. 

“Yes, they told me,” she answered. 

“Of course you think, too, that I’m after Janet’s 
money,” he exclaimed angrily. 

•Sara had desired a lucid situation, freed from all 
ambiguity. She felt that she had it now with a 
vengeance. She answered coolly: 

“I only see the surface, and that’s what it looks 
like of course. But I’m very fond of Janet — I want 
to help her — that’a why I’d like to hear your side.” 

“She’s miserable at home,” he said sullenly; “I’d 
make her happier than that.” 

“But you know . . . how delicate she is. . . 
pursued Sara. 

Lorimer laughed ironically. 

“She’s never had a chance! You must have seen 
that, haven’t you?” 

“And she’s many years older than you . . . she’s, 
in a sense, prematurely aged. . . .” Sara did not 
feel, however, that she herself looked greatly older 
than the man who sat there, haggard and rather 
wasted, with those great staring sunken eyes. 

“She’s looking years younger than she did when 
I went to Wanswater first. She looks younger, too, 
since she came here,” said Denis. 

“Oh, well. I’ve seen to her clothes,” said Sara, 
feeling rather gratified that her efforts had not been 
wholly wasted upon him. Then she went on : 
“Janet is very sweet and charming, I know, but 
her mind’s rather like that of a child. Not stupid, 
but undeveloped. . . .” 

“No wonder 1” he broke in. “I’m aghast to think 
that such cruelty masquerading as kindness should 
exist in the world to-day! That woman, Hodge! 

. . . Janet’s not undeveloped — she’s been literally 


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305 


stunted. . . . She’s been shut in a cellar, deprived 
of light and air. . . 

Sara looked at him with her calm steady eyes. 

“What do you propose to do?” she inquired. 

“Marry her as soon as I can, and look out for 
some quiet place where we can live cheaply.” 

“Do you care for Janet, Mr. Lorimer?” asked 
Sara. When she had uttered the words, she felt 
a little astonished at her own temerity. 

Their eyes met. 

“Yes,” said Lorimer. 

“You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, as far as I’m anything. She can be 
one too if she likes. She wants to be one. I’ve 
learned from her what confession can mean to 
children. She’s been suffering from repressed fear 
all these years. Her first attack was brought on by 
fear. Fear is a sentiment that timid children in- 
variably repress. It breeds* fear, fear of conse- 
quences, — fear of punishment. The child who suf- 
fers from it needs an outlet. A Catholic child 
finds that outlet in the confessional, with its secure 
inviolability. I’m not a shining example of a 
Catholic, Mrs. Ponsford, but I recognize the sanity 
of the system side by side with its sanctity.” 

“I daresay there’s a good deal to be said for it,” 
said Sara. “I mean — even from a psychological 
standpoint.” 

“I never realized it so clearly until I knew Janet,” 
Denis continued; “she began by interesting me. 

. . . She made, me think of the words A Spirit in 
Prison. ... It attracted me — I wanted to talk to 
her — to learn more. She helped me, you know, that 
day when I pulled the boy out of Wanswater. She 
was cool and competent — you wouldn’t have known 
her. You’ll think I was hypnotizing her, I suppose? 
But it was nothing of the kind. I just told her 


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306 

what to. do, and she responded. And she was so 
grateful to me that it almost hurt. . . .” 

“You know that John wants her to go and live 
near him at Gillingsea. There’s a cottage she can 
have. .She’d be perfectly independent, and she’s 
devoted to John. Wouldn’t it be best to leave it at 
that?” said Sara. 

“Do you want me to throw her over? Does she 
want it?” demanded Denis. 

“I’m only suggesting what I think would be the 
wisest thing to do. You’re a young man, Mr. Lor- 
imer, you’ve got your way to make — ’] 

“I shall make it, don’t be afraid, when I’m fit 

again She’ll help me, you know — I’ve felt 

that about her.. She’s got such perfect confidence 
in me. . . .” 

“But you’re nearly thirty. You ought to have 
made good by this time. It’s a little late to begin. 
In my country a man who hasn’t made his way at 
thirty is a failure.” 

“Isn’t this all beside the point? And I lost those 
years of the War. That made a big slice out of 
all our lives.” 

“What were you doing before the War?” 

“I was agent to Lord Farewether at Sledwick.” 

“Couldn’t you have gone back there? I know 
the present man.” 

“I wouldn’t go back there for the world! I was 
leaving in any case. Lord Farewether and I had 
. . . had a disagreement.” Denis’s face had grown 
very pale. 

Again that sense of mystery teased Sara. “I 
wonder why he left,” she thought. “I daresay he 
doesn’t pull well with other men. Still, Lord 
Farewether was such a dear old man, I should have 
thought any one could have got on with him.” 

“It was one of the greatest misfortunes of my life 
that I ever went to Sledwick,” said Denis, harshly. 


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307 


“It’s no use going into all that now. I’ve come 
here to find out how soon I can marry Janet. For 
I mean to marry her — if she’ll have me, Mrs. Pons- 
ford.” 

“Against all our wishes and advice?” 

“Yes,” he answered. 

“You know her so little. . . . And what does she 
know of you? I am thinking of the risk for you 
both.” 

“I know everything that can possibly be said 
against it — Mrs. Ponsford didn’t mince matters, I 
can tell you!” . 

“I can well imagine it,” said Sara dryly. 

“I felt how impossible it would be for Janet ever 
to live at home again after that.” 

“There isn’t any question of her living at home. 
John will arrange to have her near him.” 

“You don’t seem to take into consideration that 
Janet . . . Janet cares for me. . . . Worthless as 
I am, and as you all think me . . . she does see 
something in me that isn’t utterly detestable. . . .” 

“I know she does,” said Sara, in a softened tone. 
“She hasn’t the least wish to give you up. If the 
whole thing is to be put an end to, you must do it, 
Mr. Lorimer.” 

He dashed his hand across his eyes with a gesture 
of despair. 

“It’s no use your telling me all this 1 I feel as 
if we were two outcasts who’ve suffered a great 
deal, and can comfort each other. Now will you 
send for Janet, please? Let’s hear what she’s got 
to say. ...” 

Sara put a white finger on the enameled bell. 
To the servant who appeared with significant promp- 
titude, she said: 

“Will you send up to tell Miss Ponsford I should 
be glad if she would come down?” 

They waited in silence for Janet to appear. . . . 


3o8 


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CHAPTER XXIX 

I T was not long before Janet Ponsford came into 
the room. She was very pale, and she moved 
feebly. Lorimer rose immediately, went towards 
her and took her hand in his. 

They stood side by side in front of Sara. . . . 
“Pve just told Mrs. Ponsford that I want you 
to be my wife if you’ll marry me, Janet.” His 
voice rang sharp and clear. But he looked down 
from his height at Janet as he spoke, and his whole 
face softened. 

“Sara knew that we were engaged,” said Janet. 
She trembled a little. Why was it — oh, why 
was it — that they should all seem to grudge her 
this transcendent happiness? Lorimer slipped his 
arm about her. 

“You’d better sit down. . . .” He led her to 
a chair. “I daresay you thought I was a brute not 
to write, but after all the things your mother said 
to me, I did wonder whether I oughtn’t to clear out 
altogether. I did wonder whether I shouldn’t be 
doing you a great wrong to ask you to join your 
life to such a miserable worthless one as mine. And 
I — if I’d been taking you away from a very happy 
home, I should have thought twice about asking 
you to make such a sacrifice for me. But as it 
is — ” He stopped abruptly. 

“If one could only be sure that he isn’t acting,” 
thought Sara again. 

“Denis — ^you couldn’t have done anything so 
cruel! . . .” Janet’s voice struck across the pause 
that followed upon Lorimer’s speech. “To go away 
— and never write — to leave me. . . .” 

Denis moved a step nearer to her. “You would 
have cared?” he said. 

“Denis . . . how can you ask?” 


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“But you know that I could only have taken such a 
course for your greater happiness. You mustn’t 
think I wished to go away. . . . All I want is to 
make you happy.” He looked at Sara. “Have 
you anything to say?” 

Cool and detached as Sara was, he felt curiously 
convinced of her sympathy. She was quite fair, and 
he liked the way in which she at once protected and 
supported Janet. 

“Nothing,” said Sara. “I’m going to find John.” 

She went out of the room. Directly the door had 
closed behind her, Lorimer sat down near Janet and 
drew her to him. 

“All this is about killing you,” he said tenderly. 
“What on earth are they all making such a fuss 
for?” 

Janet leaned half-exhausted against him. He 
thought there was soniething almost beautiful now 
about that white delicate-looking face with its wist- 
ful blue eyes, its heavy crown of reddish-auburn hair. 
She looked younger, too, in those new modern dainty 
clothes of hers. Less sophisticated than Sara, but 
with something very tender and gracious about her. 

“Denis — half the time I’m in agreement with 
them. You are young — you have your way to make. 
I may be a great drag on you. . . . Are you sure 
you care enough?” 

“I’m absolutely sure. I’ll prove it to you one 
of these days.” 

“I’m old and ill. Your wife ought to be so 
young. ...” 

“Ought she?” His lips twitched. 

“And pretty and clever and rich. More like 
Sara. . . .” 

Lorimer smiled. “Dear Janet, I’ve a fancy to 
marry some one who loves me — and who’ll forgive 
me.” 

“I should always do that. But there’ll never be 


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anything to forgive,” she assured him gravely. 

It was that dreadful, serene trust in him that 
tortured him so. If she only knew all! . . . But 
he wasn’t going to hurt her by telling her anything. 
No one knew the whole truth except John, now that 
old Lord Farewether was dead. And John had 
learned it in such manner that he must hold it in 
his heart forever as a sacred, inviolable secret. Oh, 
he was safe enough, and he need not spoil that 
charming confidence in his perfection that was so 
flattering a part of Janet’s attitude towards him. 
The dark sinister shadow of Angus Ferringham 
wasn’t likely to arise a second time and come between 
him and happiness. For it was happiness of a 
calm, sober and equable kind, and Denis had the 
sense to see this and to appreciate it. The opposi- 
tion he had met with, silent and tacit on the part 
of John, violent and vituperative on the part of 
Mrs. Ponsford, had only stimulated his ardor in 
the adventure. And Janet’s love moved him deeply. 
He was not the first man to choose a frail and suffer- 
ing woman for his wife, and devote his life to mak- 
ing her happy. Other men had tried the same ex- 
periment, and had succeeded. The only thing that 
really stood between them was not disparity in age 
or in fortune, but that past sinister record of his, 
so deeply stained with shame and dishonor. It was 
the knowledge of that record which had changed 
Pio Ascarelli from staunch friend to bitter implac- 
able foe. Denis would bear the mark of that piti- 
less vendetta to his dying day. And it would always 
be associated with Angus Fcrringham’s revelations 
and disclosures. It had seemed to him as if Pio 
had exacted from him a double retribution. . . . 

“You’re really feeling better, Denis?” she asked. 
“You’re still very thin.” 

“Oh, I’m much better,” he assured her. “I shall 


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311 

be quite fit soon. I’m pretty strong, you know — 
I’ve weathered some stiffish storms.” 

“Shall you come to stay here? Sara has been 
expecting you. . . 

“I don’t think so. This place is rather too smart 
for me. But I’ll come and see you every day if 
you’ll let me. And when shall we be married, Janet ? 
I’d like it to be as soon as possible, you know. The 
first week in February, do you think? Easter’s 
very early this year, and we can’t be married in 
Lent.” 

“Whenever you like, Denis. Sara’s made me buy 
so many clothes that I don’t think I shall have to 
get many more.” 

“And when we’re married I’m going to take you 
South to the sunshine and palm-trees. I know a 
place in Algeria — close to the sea. It looks south, 
and the sun pours on the white houses all day long. 
You’ll love it, Janet.” 

“I’ve never been abroad,” she said wistfully; 
“I’ve always wanted to go.” 

“Well, we’ll spend months and months there — 
till you’re tired of it. I want you to forget Wans- 
water for a bit.” 

“But you mustn’t think I hated it . . . all,” she 
said; “there are things I have always loved about 
Wanswater — the lights on the mountains and lake at 
dawn and sunset, and my garden. The flowers — 
you never saw it in summer, Denis. Such roses — 
they seemed never tired of blossoming. . . .” Her 
eyes shone. Yes, there had been pleasant hours at 
Wanswater, when the tyranny of Hodge had been 
a little relaxed and she could wander alone in the 
garden and watch the light fading on the lake, and 
the shadows of night folding like a cloak about the 
everlasting hills. 

“And then perhaps we could go and see John in 


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Rome,” she suggested. “Fm sure he was only try- 
ing to settle at Gillingsea on my account. Now he’ll 
go back and it would be nice, wouldn’t it, Denis, 
to visit him there?” 

Denis did not speak at first, and a curious stiffen- 
ing of his features made his face look suddenly 
hard. 

“No — I shall never go back to Rome if I can 
help it,” he said at last. “Anywhere else, Janet, but 
not Rome. . . .” 

It would indeed be an act of foolishness to dis- 
turb those ghosts that still had power, as he was 
well aware, to arise, and mock and torture him. 

“You haven’t quarreled with John?” she asked 
nervously. It was the only explanation she could 
think of to account for his point-blank refusal of 
her request. 

“Of course I haven’t quarreled with John. Even 
over this business he’s been kindness itself. He’s 
the best friend I have in the world — and he’s your 
brother, Janet.” 

“I’m so glad. . . I was afraid of what might 
have happened after I left home. I couldn’t bear 
it if you and Johnny weren’t friends. . . .” 

Sara did not return to them for some time. They 
would certainly have much to say to each other, 
and this was the first time they had had any sort of 
opportunity for that exchange of thought which is 
never so necessary as between the newly-engaged. 
Besides, she herself had a great deal to say to John. 
He had apparently known Denis for some time; it 
was possible, therefore, that he might have some 
light to throw upon the intriguing mystery of his 
character and past life. She badly wanted John to 
reassure her on those points which at present baf- 
fled her, and prevented her from giving the pair 
her whole-hearted support. 

There was much in Denis that had pleased her. 


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313 


She had liked his thoughtful analysis of Janet’s 
situation; his evident appreciation of her sterling 
qualities beneath that surface timidity; his stubborn 
determination to make her his wife and to promote 
her happiness. After all, if there was nothing defi- 
nite against him it would be wiser to let the matter 
pursue its normal course to the wedding in West- 
minster Cathedral as suggested by Pamela. 

John was restless and anxious. In his heart he 
was inclined to blame Sara for encouraging Lor- 
imer, and for inviting him to her house. Secretly 
he prophesied disaster of the marriage. In a few 
months Denis would tire of Janet; he would prob- 
ably desert her. He would spend her money and 
break her heart. She knew nothing of the man. . . . 

But he did not voice these thoughts; rather he 
endeavored to put them from his mind. He had 
been ready to sacrifice much for Janet, but it was 
of no avail. She had rejected the proffered sacri- 
fice. Her heart was wholly set upon Denis Lor- 
imer. 

‘‘What I want to know is,” Sara’s cool voice was 
saying, “why you ever took him to Wanswater?” 

“I never dreamed of anything of the kind hap- 
pening!” 

“Don’t you ever think of eventualities?” 

“My dear Sara, I should as soon have thought 
of any one falling in love with my mother as with 
Janet.” 

“You should have remembered that the perfectly 
unselfish woman is hard to find,” rejoined Sara. 

“Besides, I knew — it isn’t a secret — that he was 
desperately in love with an Italian girl last spring. 
I thought he was still very unhappy about it. . . . 
I tell you he seemed the most unlikely person in 
the world then to fall in love with Janet or any one 
else.” 

“You forgot the proverb about hearts on the re- 


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bound,” said Sara. “And then he’s a very poor 
man, and she has money. . . . Don’t you think 
she’s improved very much since she came here? 
Mr. Lorimer noticed it, too. She looks younger 
and happier. Really to-night she’s almost pretty.” 

“Yes, I thought she was changed. Oh, she’s 
happy enough now. . . .” 

Sara looked at him with her calm eyes. 

“I wish you’d tell me what you know about 
him, John,” she said. “You see I’ve got nothing to 
go upon. He’s not very communicative, is he? I’m 
working in the dark and I may be criminally foolish 
in giving him any encouragement.” 

John rose rather abruptly. “I really can tell 
you very little about him, Sara. I have seen a good 
deal of him from time to time, especially in Rome, 
but we were never at all intimate. I know he had 
a love affair when he was there, and it was broken 
off and caused him a great deal of pain. So much 
was common knowledge. I don’t suppose Janet 
would think any the worse of him for that.” He 
looked at the clock. “I must be getting back. I 
don’t think I’ll stay to dinner to-night after all.” 

There was nothing in his speech either to cause 
or quiet uneasiness. Sara was left in doubt as to 
whether John possessed exact knowledge of Denis 
Lorimer’s career or not. It was quite evident, 
though, that he was not prepared to throw any light 
upon that complicated and mysterious subject. He 
didn’t like the thought of this marriage for Janet, 
but obviously he was going to give no special reason 
for his disapproval. Sara sighed. She had had no 
idea there was so much of Ponsford obstinacy in 
John. . . . 

When he had departed, she went slowly back to 
the drawing-room. She was deep in thought. The 
events of the evening had certainly held dramatic 
possibilities, and she confessed to herself that she 


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felt slightly excited. She liked Denis better — much 
better — than she had intended or expected to, but 
she trusted him even less than she had imagined 
possible. She was inclined on the whole to sympa- 
thize with old Mrs. Ponsford’s view of the case. 
She would like to have been present at that final 
encounter between the two belligerent parties. And 
yet on the other hand it was a consolation to feel 
that just for once the old lady had met her match. 

“We’ve settled everything, Mrs. Ponsford,” was 
Denis’s greeting to her, as she came into the room. 
“The first week in February. . . . Janet thinks she 
can be ready by then. And I want to get 
her South into the sunshine as soon as possible. 
I’m going to be her physician in future and prescribe 
only agreeable remedies!” 

He smiled confidently at Janet, who sat there 
very still with a soft glow of happiness suffusing 
her face. It had been such a wonderful half hour 
alone with Denis, making plans for the future, lis- 
tening to his eager hopeful words. 

“I really can’t think what Stephen will say,” said 
Sara. This rash haste took her by surprise. Why 
couldn’t they wait a little? Or did Denis perceive 
some subtle danger in delay? 

“What right has he to say anything at all?” 
demanded Denis. 

He was more assured himself now because he was 
so certain of Janet. The time was past when they 
could have frightened her into reluctant submission. 

“Well, he happens to be her brother and the head 
of the family,” said Sara. “However, we won’t 
have any more discussions to-night. And dinner will 
be ready in about five minutes. You must stay and 
dine, Mr. Lorimer. I couldn’t persuade John to 
— he’s just left.” 

“Left? But he never said good-night to me,” 
said Janet. She felt a little upset at hearing of 


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his departure. It was as if he had not wanted to 
come in again and to hear the results of her con- 
versation with Denis. Was he angry with her — 
with Sara — ^with Denis himself perhaps ? . . . And 
then the teasing thought came back into her mind, 
as if she had received it from Sara’s brain by some 
queer process of thought-transference: What did 
John know? Why was he so silent in his disap- 
proval? After all, Denis was his own friend. . . . 

She felt as if something of constraint and sad- 
ness had crept into her perfect happiness. It made 
her turn to Denis and slip her hand confidingly into 
his. Not to reassure him — that was unnecessary 
— ^but to win assurance from him. To make quite 
certain that he was truly there, that he did love 
her, that it wasn’t only a bright and beautiful 
dream. . . . 

Denis took her hand and lifted it to his lips. 


CHAPTER XXX 

O N THE whole it was a relief to Sara that 
Denis Lorimer had decided not to stay with 
them during his sojourn in London. There was a 
great deal to be done to get Janet ready, and very 
little time to do it in. In addition to which, after 
a fortnight in Paris Pamela suddenly returned under 
the escort of Lord Cullingdon; she had not, he ex- 
plained, wished to prolong her visit, and as he was 
returning to London himself, he offered to let her 
accompany him. 

After his departure Sara questioned her daughter 
delicately. She was afraid that Pamela might have 
acted in what Lady Cullingdon would consider an 
outrageous manner, and she wondered what had 
happened in this particular instance. 


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Pamela was looking very pretty. She wore a new 
hat, and a very smart fur coat. Her skirts in that 
brief absence were if anything a little shorter, and 
she seemed to have assimilated the air of a sophisti- 
cated Frenchwoman of twice her years. 

“Simply couldn’t stand it. Mum,” she said. 
“Lady Cullingdon is a most fearful martinet. She 
doesn’t let Doris do anything amusing. Not one 
play — she said they weren’t proper for young girls. 
She was horrified when I told her I’d been with 
Dad to see the ‘Spin of the Coin!’ ” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” replied Sara dryly. 

She was disappointed on the whole, for her pro- 
phetic eye had sometimes pictured Pamela safely 
married in the distant future to young Lord Skip- 
ton, the Cullingdons’ son and heir. They had al- 
ways been, as Pamela expressed it, “tremendous 
pals.” And hitherto Lady Cullingdon had encour- 
aged the friendship between her children and Sara’s. 

“Doris has an awfully thin time,” continued 
Pamela. “I think Lady Cullingdon’s rather like 
Gran. Quite nineteenth-century and eighteen- 
seventy-ish! Why, we were never allowed to go 
out without Mademoiselle, not even if Skipton came 
with us. I stood it as long as I could, for I simply 
loved the shops. But we had all our meals in their 
private sitting-room, and we weren’t taken to dine 
at a single restaurant. Lady Cullingdon said we 
weren’t old enough and that Doris had gone to 
Paris to improve her mind.” 

“I hope you didn’t argue, dear Pamela,” said 
Sara nervously. 

“Not II I said I’d a sore throat — it really was 
a little bit sore — and that frightened Lady Cul- 
lingdon into a fit. She began to suggest it might 
be better for me to travel back with Lord Culling- 
don, and of course I jumped at the idea. How’s 
Aunt Janet getting on, Mum?” 


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“She is to be married in February.” 

“February? How topping! What have you 
chosen for me to wear?” 

“Oh, she’s not going to have any bridesmaids. 
It’s to be very quiet,” said Sara. 

“And what’s he like? Presentable?” inquired 
Pamela. 

“Yes,” said Sara. “Quite. But you see, being so 
very poor is a disadvantage. He preferred not to 
stay here.” 

“Are they all making a fearful row about it?” 

“Yes,” admitted Sara. “Your father isn’t very 
civil to him yet. And I’ve had letters from nearly 
all of them to say they’re coming here to-morrow 
morning. Why they should want to hold a family 
committee meeting in my house I can’t imagine.” 

“It’ll be frightfully funny. I’m so thankful not 
to miss it. I shall simply love to hear Uncle Ger- 
ard!” 

“But, Pamela — I wasn’t going to let you come. 
You see, they’re all very angry about it. I really 
think you’d better not be present.” 

Pamela at once twined her plump young arms 
about her mother’s neck. 

“Was it going to take a leaf out of Lady’s Cul- 
lingdon’s book? I should go mad if I were snubbed 
and kept in order like Doris. Why, she’s afraid of 
her mother! Would you like me to be afraid of 
you, my darling little Mum?” 

Sara released herself. 

“I shouldn’t like it at all,” she responded in her 
crisp decisive voice, “but that’s no reason why I 
shouldn’t have my own way sometimes.” She 
looked at Pamela attentively. “If you do come, you 
must keep very quiet. I can’t have you joining in 
— they’ll all tell me afterwards that I spoil you so, 
I shall ruin you.” 

“Don’t listen to them — they’re always grousing 


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about something. But you and Aunt Violet must 
stick up for poor old Aunt Janet. Don’t let them 
separate her from the first best boy she’s ever had 
in her life I” 

“You see, they all think he’s marrying her for 
her money. I’m not quite sure that it isn’t true. 
And yet sometimes when he’s been talking to me 
about her, he’s almost persuaded me that he does 
care for her. It seems an odd thing to say, but 
he looks upon her as an interesting case.” 

“Has he ever seen her in one of her fits?” in- 
quired Pamela, with a crude bluntness that would 
have caused old Mrs. Ponsford to swoon with hor- 
ror had she been there to hear it. 

“Yes,” said Sara. “He thinks she’s never been 
properly treated, and that they are probably due 
to repressed fear.” 

“Fear of Gran?” inquired Pamela, who consid- 
ered such an emotion not impossible. 

“More of Hodge,” returned Sara. 

“She must have had a perfectly rotten time all 
these years,” Pamelaf pronounced. “Well, you must 
see she’s not sat upon to-morrow, anyhow, or I shall 
feel simply bound to chip in.” 

“My dear child, I do beg you won’t. You’ll only 
make matters worse.” 

“When shall I see my new uncle? I’m bursting 
to get it over.” 

“To-night — he’s coming to dinner. Mind you 
don’t talk too much. ...” 

“I’ll be very discreet,” Pamela promised. “And 
I’ve a duck of a new frock to wear. You never 
saw anything so ... so cosy!” 

“I think I’d better have a look at it first,” said 
Sara, nervously. “Where on earth did you get it?” 

“ In the Rue de la Paix, and it cost the earth,” 
said Pamela. “I spent all the money on it that I’d 
intended to spend on Aunt Janet’s wedding present. 


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But I thought I could get something that she’d like 
in London just as well, whereas I should never, 
never be able to find a frock like that here.” 

“Did Lady Cullingdon see it?” asked Sara un- 
easily. 

“No, she didn’t exactly see it, but I’m sure Mad- 
amoiselle told her all about it — she was there when 
I bought it — we couldn’t shunt her, you know, for 
five minutes. It was soon after that, that Lady 
Cullingdon began to take such a passionate interest 
in my sore throat, and to say she wasn’t sure if the 
air of Paris suited me. I took the hint. Mum, for 
I felt if I stayed much longer I should really dis- 
grace myself in her eyes, and probably get poor 
Doris into a row, too. Skipton was awfully sick 
about my coming away, but I had five minutes with 
him alone and made him see that I was quite right.” 

Given such an unpromising situation, Sara thought 
her young daughter had handled it with considerable 
skill. 

She accompanied Pamela upstairs to inspect the 
new frock. It was already unpacked and was lying 
on the bed in masses of silver paper. It was of pale 
shimmering green and it was slightly more ample 
than Sara had dared to hope. 

“It’s quite a girl’s frock,” Pamela hastened to 
explain. “You see, it’s got sleeves — and the 
sash . . .” She looked eagerly at her mother, as 
if anxious to detect any signs of approval or the re- 
verse. But Sara’s face was studiously non-com- 
mittal. She felt the flimsy material as if to appraise 
its value, and then considered the shoes and stock- 
ings which were placed in readiness by its side. 
There was also a little fillet for the hair — a simple 
band of pale green and silver. 

“The woman said it was exactly my color. She 
didn’t approve of my wearing pink. Blue, yes, or 


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pale yellow — people are wearing yellow again, you 
know — but green was the right thing for me. I 
thought perhaps you could give me a string of jade 
on my next birthday.” 

“I’ll think about it,” said Sara, “but, Pamela, 
you had better not wear this to-night. It’s rather 
too smart when we’re quite by ourselves.” 

Pamela pouted. 

“I want to make a good first impression upon my 
new uncle !” 

“Then wear your new white frock. It’s very 
pretty and not quite so . . . smart.” 

“Well, will you give a dinner-party soon, when 
I can wear it?” 

“Yes^ — I’m having a few people on Tuesday. 
You could wear it then.” 

Pamela dressed early that evening. When she 
heard the bell ring, she descended the stairs and 
waited in the hall while the door was opened to ad- 
mit Denis Lorimer. She saw a very tall man, very 
thin, with haggard cheeks and hollow sunken eyes. 

“Aunt Janet must feed him up,” was her first 
rapid mental comment. 

She went up to him and held out her hand. 

“I’m Pamela,” she said, in a frank kindly tone, 
calculated to put the most timid man — and Denis 
was far from being that — at his ease. “I only 
arrived this afternoon from Paris. We had a vile 
crossing. I wasn’t ill though, and it brought me 
one blessing — I never saw my chaperon from the 
time we went on board till we reached Folkestone!” 

“I’m sure you made e»very use of your' opportuni- 
ties,” said Denis dryly. 

Having been told that Pamela was “about fif- 
teen,” he had certainly not expected anything so 
mature and self-possessed. So this was Janet’s 
niece, the child of the new generation and curiously 


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typical of it. He realized suddenly that Pamela 
made him feel old. It may be observed that she 
frequently had that effect upon people. 

She mounted the stairs in front of him. But the 
glimpse she had had of him had satisfied her. Of 
course he was too young for Aunt Janet, but that 
was, as she would have expressed it, his “own look- 
out.” He was quite well-dressed (John had seen 
to that) and his slightly cynical reply to the recital 
of her cross-Channel experiences had pleased rather 
than offended her. 

“Pm sorry to hear that Aunt Janet isn’t going 
to have any bridesmaids,” she said, turning her head 
and looking at him. “I’ve been one so often that 
I’m quite a professional at it. Only Pve never 
figured at a Catholic wedding, and that would have 
been a new experience. Don’t you adore a new 
experience? I do, when they’re nice ones. And 
even if they’re horrid, there is something to be said 
for them — at least they are new.” 

“I hope you will always be able to regard un- 
pleasant novelties in that same philosophical man- 
ner,” said Denis. 

“Well, I mean to try to, anyhow,” she said. 
“Don’t you agree with me? — It’s mean to edge 
away from things just because one doesn’t like the 
look of them or because you’re afraid they may hurt 
you!” 

“Perhaps I’ve had too many experiences that were 
both new and exceedingly disagreeable,” said Denis, 
with a touch of bitterness in his soft voice. And as 
he spoke, he seemed to be standing there in the dim 
Umbrian woods, with Pio Ascarelli’s dark revenge- 
ful face glowering in front of him. 

“Oh, yes, of course, you were fighting in France,” 
said Pamela, suddenly grave. She looked at his 
helpless arm. “Was that where you were 
wounded?” 


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“People always ask me that. But, as a matter 
of fax:t, I got hurt in an accident ... in Italy.” 

They entered the drawing-room and found that 
Sara and Janet were already sitting there. 

“Well, Denis,” said Sara, “I see Pamela’s intro- 
duced herself.” 

“Yes — we had quite a philosophical discussion 
on the stairs,” he answered. He went up to Janet 
and took her hand. “I hope your shopping’s nearly 
done. You look tired out.” 

Janet smiled a little uneasily. When she had seen 
Denis and Pamela come into the room together, the 
thought flashed into her mind : “He ought to marry 
a young girl. Pamela would make him a more suit- 
able wife than I should.” Then the next moment 
she comforted herself with the reflection that she 
could give him perhaps what another woman could 
never give him. So much tenderness ... so much 
affection . . . after his starved penurious unsuccess- 
ful life. Pamela would doubtless make a very dif- 
ferent kind of marriage. She would insist that the 
man she married should be in a position to bestow 
upon her all the manifold and complicated luxuries 
of modern life. 

Yet with it all she was a lovable, loyal, affection- 
ate little creature, very frank and straightforward 
and sincere, with an ardent desire that every one else 
should also have a “good time.” She adored her 
mother, and submitted to her decisions on those rare 
occasions when Sara insisted upon being obeyed. 
They were on the best of terms and enjoyed each 
other’s society. 

“Weren’t you surprised to hear that I’d come 
back, Aunt Janet?” Pamela inquired at dinner. 

“I was rather,” said Janet, smiling at her young 
niece. 

“I’ve told Mum all about it, and she thinks I 
was quite right to take advantage of Lord Culling- 


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don’s escort,” said Pamela, with an admirable imi- 
tation of Lady Cullingdon’s precise and dignified 
enunciation. “It was all right directly I’d made 
poor Skipton see that I should probably get into 
irremediable disgrace if I stayed on. ‘Such a ter- 
rible example for dear little Doris’ !” She again 
imitated Lady Cullingdon. “I wish you could have 
been an invisible spectator. Mum. It was really 
too funny for words. She never guessed I was 
smiling in my sleeve.” 

“I’m sure you behaved horribly; you never try 
to do me any credit, Pamela,” said Sara, with undi- 
•minished cheerfulness. “I shall have to take you 
myself next time.” 

“That will be topping,” said Pamela. “There 
are such heaps of things I wasn’t allowed to go and 
see. I’m simply dying to go back. By the way, 
where’s Dad?” 

“He and Gilbert are dining with Violet — they’re 
going to the pantomime.” 

“Aren’t you looking forward to to-morrow. Aunt 
Janet? I am — I think it’ll be the loveliest stunt!” 

“Why, what’s going to happen to-morrow?” 
asked Janet, uneasily. 

“Oh, they’ve all written to say they’re coming — 
the whole family, I mean,” said Sara. She had been 
wondering how she should break the unpleasant 
intelligence to Janet, and was somewhat relieved that 
Pamela should have thus brusquely introduced the 
subject. 

“Why are they all coming?” asked Janet. She 
looked across the table at Denis. Was it to make 
a final effort to separate them? Denis smiled back 
encouragingly. 

“We must look to. Pamela to support us during 
the ordeal,” he said ironically. 

“Of course I’m going to support Aunt Janet,” 
said Pamela. 


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Sara said: “Remember, I’ve told you to be per- 
fectly silent I It will only annoy your father if you 
‘chip in,’ as you call it!” 

“Can’t you picture Aunt Louisa? And Uncle 
Gerard? And fussy Aunt Margaret. And Cosmo 
looking down his nose as if no one in the room were 
worth speaking to? I wish we had a dicta- 
graph to perpetuate the accumulated Ponsford wis- 
dom! A hundred years hence people won’t simply 
be able to believe that it really happened just like 
that !” 

“Are we supposed to take any part in it?” asked 
Denis. 

He was not quite sure that he liked the prospect. 
Colonel Fortune had held diplomatic posts at various 
European capitals before the War, and it was more 
than probable that he was acquainted with Angus 
Ferringham. He might find out things ... if 
anything were really known. After the happenings 
at Villa Ascarelli, Denis could not but believe that 
Angus knew enough to condemn him utterly in the 
eyes of the assembled Ponsfords. Even Pamela’s 
cheery demeanor did not chase the look of despair- 
ing dejection from his face. 

“Well, they’ll want to see you, I expect,” said 
Sara. “They have all said they were coming to 
meet you. It was only odd that they should all 
have chosen the same day and the same hour. I 
couldn’t ask them to lunch — I’m lunching out my- 
self.” 

“What time are they coming?” asked Denis. 
He looked almost as uncomfortable as he felt. A 
sense of guilt weighed him down. He could not 
meet the calm, frank, friendly eyes of Sara and her 
daughter. What would they say if they knew of 
all those smudged pages in his past life? He 
thought that Pamela at any rate would turn from 
him in frank and astonished disgust. 


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Sara perceived that, for some reason or other, 
Denis disliked the thought of encountering this 
assemblage of his future relations. He was evi- 
dently prepared for a hostile demonstration; perha{>s 
he overrated the influence of old Mrs. Ponsford 
upon her numerous descendants. 

“Eleven o’clock,” replied Sara, “and I’ve tele- 
phoned to John to beg him to come. So you’ll 
have his support as well as mine and Janet’s and 
Pamela’s.” 

She rose from the table as she spoke, smiling at 
Lorimer as if to give him courage. But the cloud 
did not lift from his face. 

So John was coming . . . But would John be on 
his side? ... 


CHAPTER XXXI 

P> EFORE eleven o’clock on the following morning 
^ Sara’s pretty drawing-room presented, for such 
an early hour, an unusually animated appearance. 
The Ponsford clan, so long scattered, had assembled 
to combat a danger that menaced one of their tribe. 
As individuals they agreed less well with each other 
than most families, but as a clan and for the purpose 
of driving away an interloper, they could present a 
formidably united front. 

Mrs. Dacreson, the eldest daughter, was there, 
a singularly large but handsome woman, who had not 
forgotten the days when Algernon Dacreson had 
been by no means persona grata at Hawford, when 
as a timid suitor he had first faced a “righteously 
indignant” Dean. Algernon was with her this morn- 
ing, a slight fair man with a straw-colored beard 
which did its best to conceal or at least to modify 


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a weak chin. Next to Margaret sat Lady Bradney, 
beautifully dressed in velvet and furs, as befitted so 
dismally cold a day. She was still very lovely, dark- 
eyed, dark-haired, with a charming expression. Her 
son, Sir Cosmo, lounged gracefully near her, looking 
bored and supercilious. He had come, as he ex- 
pressed it, to “have a look at the bounder poor Aunt 
Janet wanted to marry,” for hitherto no sight of 
Denis had been vouchsafed to him. They had al- 
ways “just missed” him when they had come to 
Green Street. The next sister, Margaret, came in a 
little later, supported by her husband. Colonel Ger- 
ard Fortune, who subtly combined in his immaculate 
appearance the twin roles imposed upon a man who 
has played the part of military attache for a con- 
siderable number of years. He was not tall, but he 
made up for his lack of inches by an erect military 
bearing, and his face was still handsome enough to 
account for his having been known in his youth by 
the nickname of “Beauty” Fortune. Margaret was 
thin, fussy, nervous, and inclined to be loquacious. 
She and Janet had been the two sisters nearest in age, 
and it had always been considered suitable that as 
children they should “pair off” together. Marga- 
ret had bullied and dominated Janet, who had 
turned to John for support and sympathy. There 
had never been much love lost between the two sis- 
ters, and Margaret had preferred to form a triangle 
with Louisa and Violet rather than consent to “pair 
off” with Janet. 

The Ponsford sons were only represented by 
Stephen and John. Curtis could not be there, 
owing to his absence in India, but had he been in 
London it is extremely doubtful whether he would 
have availed himself of the unique opportunity of 
meeting so many of his relations at once. Giles was 
m Devonshire and did not wish to spend so much of 


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his slender balance on so long a railway journey. 
But his eldest son Edwy — a young man of nineteen 
— ^was there, having come up to spend a few weeks 
with the Dacresons, who lived in Surrey. It was 
felt that Edwy would hold, metaphorically speaking, 
a watching brief for the Giles Ponsfords, who would 
be the principal sufferers in the long run, should 
Janet persist in this disastrous marriage. 

Giles, usually so little prone to telegraphic com- 
munications, had wired to Louisa to say that it must 
be stopped at all costs. 

The two culprits had not as yet put in an appear- 
ance. Indeed the earliest arrivals had had the 
room to themselves. Sara had come in nearly ten 
minutes later. She was the one thoroughly cool and 
composed person in the room. But then, as Louisa 
had said in confidence to Violet, it could make no 
difference to her, and that was why she was encour- 
aging it. Having them here under her own roof, 
smiling upon it. . . . Her dollars were safe enough, 
which was all that Sara cared about! . . . 

There had been indeed a few whispered comments 
of an acrimonious nature from Louisa, before the 
appearance of Mrs. Stephen Ponsford, but after her 
arrival on the scene of action, there had been a 
marked disinclination to open the debate, which was 
the more significant because every one present was 
conscious that he or she had ready a torrent of elo- 
quence only awaiting a suitable opening. 

A few minutes after Sara had joined them, the 
door opened and Pamela came into the room. She 
wore a grass green silk jumper and a white woolen 
skirt made very short. Her black bobbed hair 
framed her healthy smiling face attractively. 

Mrs. Dacreson’s face fell a little. She was not 
at all prepared to say all that she had fully intended 
to say in front of Pamela. It was ridiculous the 
way Sara thrust the child forward; she had all the 


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self-possession of a woman of twenty-five. Pamela 
shook hands with her aunts and uncles-by-marriage 
and then sat down near her mother. She was per- 
fectly aware that every one there regarded her pres- 
ence as both unnecessary and enibarrassing; the 
thought enchanted her. 

Violet Bradney, however, gave her a friendly 
little nod and said: 

“Wouldn’t they keep you in Paris any longer, 
my child? I thought you were to be there a 
month.” 

“I left on account of Lady Cullingdon’s health, 
but she thought it was on account of mine. Aunt 
Violet,” said Pamela demurely. 

Her eyes danced. 

Louisa Dacreson broke in with: 

“Sara — we’ve come to discuss this disastrous busi- 
ness of Janet’s!” 

“Oh, I thought you’d all come to be introduced 
to your future brother-in-law,” said Sara carelessly. 
“He’ll come in presently, if he feels equal to it. Our 
numbers rather scare him.” She identified herself 
cheerfully with the assembled Ponsfords, as their 
quick tribal instinct readily and approvingly recog- 
nized. They hoped Sara might instil a little of her 
own sound common sense into Janet’s silly head. 

“It’s all nonsense, of course, and Janet must 
listen to reason,” pursued Mrs. Dacreson. “The 
man is after her money.” 

Edwy Ponsford stroked a beardless chin and said 
in a rather high falsetto voice: 

“If Aunt Janet marries at all, she ought to marry 
some old chap. This Lorimer might outlive us all.” 

“Janet is far too delicate to marry at all,” said 
Margaret Fortune, “Mamma has always said so, 
and we know she is invariably right.” 

Pamela controlled a smile, and received a warn- 
ing look, enjoining silence, from Sara. 


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“If Mr. Lorimer were to see her in one of her 
. . . attacks/’ continued Mrs. Fortune fretfully, 
“he would be quite disillusioned . . . she has always 
been ill ever since I can remember her, and she’s 
silly and nervous into the bargain. I’ve always said 
I wouldn’t have her in the house for the world.” 

Gerard Fortune nodded his handsome head twice, 
very slowly and deliberately, as if in tacit agreement 
of this statement. 

“Buy him out,” said Sir Cosmo, “he only wants 
money. Poor beggar hasn’t a cent. He knows 
Aunt Janet’s prepared to give him a free hand with 
her six hundred a year.” 

“What I say is,” continued Louisa Dacreson with 
increased firmness, “that when once you let Roman 
Catholics into your house there’s no knowing what 
will happen. All this could have been avoided if 
John had not become a priest.” She shut her mouth 
firmly and looked with a challenging glance across 
the room at her brother. “People ought to be sat- 
isfied with the Church of England. Dear Papa al- 
ways was — if any of his congregation joined the 
Roman Church he used to think they were mad. 
And John had a good chance of an excellent living.” 

“What on earth made you take the man to Wans- 
water for, John?” inquired Colonel Fortune, fixing 
a monocle in his right eye and directing his gaze 
blandly in the direction of the priest. 

John had had an intense desire to refuse Sara’s 
entreaties that he should be present. He had noth- 
ing to say, he could be of no use, but Sara had told 
him that for his sister’s sake he certainly ought to 
come. Besides, Denis was his friend — he could 
surely find things to say in his favor ... He had 
yielded, and now they seemed to be bent on attack- 
ing him. 

“I met him on my way home. He — he was very 


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33 i 

poor. I couldn’t think of any other plan. And I 
never dreamed of course that Janet — 1” 

Colonel Fortune was not popular in the family. 
Too much side, his own generation said; too much 
“swank” was the expression used by profane young 
persons like Cosmo and Pamela. 

“What-er sort of a looking chap is he?” he asked, 
aware from personal experience of the value of a 
good “presence.” 

“Mamma called him a mountebank,” said Lou- 
isa Dacreson. 

Edwy gave a slight giggle. 

Margaret Fortune, who had always found it dip- 
lomatic to adopt a slightly sycophantic attitude to- 
wards her mother (it had certainly paid best when 
she was a child) here remarked: 

“Dear Mamma has a wonderful faculty for hit- 
ting the right nail on the head.” 

Then Sara struck in: “Oh he’s all right to 
look at, if you come to that. Very tall” — (Colonel 
Fortune’s lack of inches constituted the one drop of 
bitterness in an otherwise cloying cup) — “and dark. 
Rather unusual and perhaps a trifle actorish. But 
it’s really useless to discuss it now. Janet’s got the 
bit between her teeth and she means to marry him.” 

“She ought to be shut up,” said Louisa Dacreson, 
purple with anger. 

John gave a quick movement almost as if he were 
going to answer his sister, as perhaps she deserved 
to be answered. But he kept silence. He was 
thinking of the old house at Wanswater lying in its 
setting of dim brown woods and still silver lake and 
the low banks that were green all the year round. 
He thought, too, of the night when Denis had lain in 
danger of death, and of the confession he had made. 
He tried to chase the thought of it from him, but it 
clung persistently to his mind; it would not be driven 
forth. 


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“Well, Johnny, he’s your friend, let’s hear your 
verdict!” said Violet, smiling. 

“I am afraid I haven’t one, except that Janet is 
of an age to choose for herself. I am only re- 
sponsible for taking Denis to Wanswater. ...” 

“But what’s your opinion of him, John? That’s 
what we’re trying to get at.” Colonel Fortune as- 
sumed a debonair “man-to-man” tone; he had rather 
liked John until he became a priest. 

John was silent for a moment, then he said: 

“I am afraid my opinion would hardly weigh 
with any of you.” 

“Johnny’s scored one there,” thought Violet. 
Yet if the man were Johnny’s friend why could he 
not speak up for him and tell them so? 

“I’m afraid that we’ve been forgetting all these 
years that Janet was a human being — a starved, mis- 
erable woman,” said Sara. 

“What do you mean, Sara? She has never been 
out of Mamma’s sight! No one ever had a better 
and more comfortable home or greater care taken 
of her. I’ve often urged Mamma to send her 
away — to some family used to such queer cases of 
heart where she could be well looked after. But 
dear Mamma had far too high a sense of duty for 
that. She spoke to me quite severely for suggesting 
such a thing.” Margaret’s voice waxed almost 
pathetic as she related this instance of Mrs. Pons- 
ford’s unparalleled devotion to duty. 

“I can’t help feeling,” said Sara, with admirable 
patience, “that this is a matter for Janet’s own de- 
cision. She’s old enough to know her own mind!” 

“No fool like an old one,” put in Edwy. 

Sara looked at him with steady eyes. 

“That depends,” she said, so dryly that an angry 
flush of chagrin rose to the young man’s cheek. 
“And then thirty-five isn’t old.” 


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333 

“Nearly thirty-six — her birthday’s in June,” said 
Margaret Fortune. 

“How old’s this Lorimer?” asked Louisa Dacre- 
son. 

“He’s a little under thirty,” said Sara, “but he 
looks more. . . .” 

They were all, John felt, talking beside the point. 
The real objections did not lie in disparity of age or 
inequality of fortune, but in something that lay hid- 
den and out of sight, something that must never be 
revealed. Unless indeed Denis chose to reveal it 
and to put Janet to the supreme test, so as to dis^ 
cover if she was prepared to marry the man he was, 
instead of the man she had believed him to be. But 
Denis wouldn’t run that risk. He had seen the re- 
sult of such disclosures at Villa Ascarelli. He would 
let Janet marry him in ignorance, and perhaps he 
would keep her in ignorance until her dying day. 

Margaret’s thin fussy voice broke in : 

“And the money? It’s too late to tie it up, I sup- 
pose ? Can’t you insist upon a marriage-settlement 
being made? Why should Janet be allowed to leave 
all her money — I may say, all Giles’s money — to 
this mountebank?” 

No one answered this question. A gloomy silence 
prevailed. Margaret proceeded querulously, “But 
as I said before, he’s only got to see her in one of 
her attacks!” 

“He has seen her, as it happens,” said John 
quietly; “it didn’t make the slightest difference except 
to deepen his interest in her. He thought she could 
be treated.” 

“You can’t do much for valvular weakness!” 
pronounced Louisa Dacreson stormily. It seemed 
to annoy her that any one should think her sister 
could possibly be curable. 

“Lorimer doesn’t think it’s got much to do with 


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her heart. Nor does Stokes — this new man who 
has come to Wanswater in Dr. Taylor’s place. 
He’s changed the treatment — or rather he was going 
to, only Janet came to stay here.” 

Sara dropped her bombshell quite calmly. 

“Hodge has terrorized her for years. Janet’s 
subconscious mind has been shadowed with fear 
since she was nine years old. If she had been happy 
— if she’d been allowed to live a perfectly normal 
life — she’d have got quite well.” 

“Nonsense!” said Colonel Fortune, dropping 
diplomacy and speaking in a loud angry tone. “It’s 
her heart. It’s always been her heart. Her mother 
told me so.” 

He had acquired something of his wife’s deter- 
mined faith in the infallibility of old Mrs. Pons- 
ford. Besides, heart was one thing. Any delicate 
child might suffer from valvular weakness. 

“Well, then, it isn’t her heart. It’s her brain, ^ 
said Sara. 

The ominous word passed from lip to lip. 

Brain 

Edwy’s falsetto voice shrilled it above all the rest. 

“Brain!” 

It was remarkable how much significance the as- 
sembled Ponsfords contrived to put into that single 
monosyllable. Long after the rest had uttered it 
in varying tones of consternation, incredulity and 
dismay, young Edwy was heard to repeat it stupidly, 
shrilly. 

“Pooh ! A little twopenny-halfpenny country 
practitioner like Stokes to go against a man with a 
European reputation like Sir Oswald Metcalfe!” 
said Colonel Fortune. He glanced nervously at his 
wife. 

“And poor old Hodge — so faithful and devoted !” 
said Louisa Dacreson. There was a general sense 
of indignation at Sara’s blunt speech. 


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“If it had been brain,” said Margaret Fortune, 
with the manner of one who states an incontro- 
vertible fact, “dear Mamma would have known, 
and she would have told us.” 

“Sara and I both think there’s a good deal to be 
said for Stokes’s view of the case.. Janet ought to 
have had more freedom.” 

Stephen spoke for the first time. It was as if 
he were replying to their combined but unuttered 
condemnation of Sara’s frank words. 

“What are you all making such a fuss about?” 
said Pamela, for the first time refusing to pay the 
slightest attention to her mother’s warning gestures 
and glances. “Aunt Janet’s as right as rain, and I 
don’t believe any of us would have come out of it 
as well as she has. She’s been boxed up at Wans- 
water for I don’t know how many years, seldom 
seeing a soul except Gran and Hodge, and she can 
hardly go out into the garden without Hodge fol- 
lowing her. Bad luck she’s never had a best boy 
before to take her away from it. And of course 
as she isn’t very young she’s taken it more seriously 
than I should, for instance. It’s like having the 
measles when you’re grown up.” 

Every one present with the exception of Sara, 
Stephen and Violet, literally gasped with horror. 
Sara laughed. It was certainly expected of her that 
she should rebuke her forward young daughter and 
perhaps send her out of the room, which she ought 
to have done half an hour ago. But Sara took no 
steps of the kind. The assembled Ponsfords were 
appalled at this exhibition of criminal indulgence. 

“If you were my daughter, Pamela, you’d have 
your ears nicely boxed,” said Colonel Fortune, 
in a bland crushing tone that would have annihil- 
ated any one less resilient than Pamela. 

“Oh,' I know Peggy and Polly have a perfectly 
rotten time,” said Pamela witheringly, “and, besides, 


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it’s very dangerous to box people’s ears — you must 
be dreadfully nineteenth-century not to know that.” 

Still no reproof forthcoming. It was intolerable 
that Pamela should be permitted to address her 
uncle in this way. 

Colonel Fortune’s complacent and self-satisfied 
demeanor was slightly but quite obviously impaired 
by the encounter. He was actually disconcerted. 
There was an uncomfortable pause. Pamela, the 
chief offender, was apparently the least affected or 
embarrassed by the stormy atmosphere. She was 
secretly enjoying herself immensely. 

“I can’t think what your dear grandmamma would 
say, Pamela, if she could hear you speak like that,” 
said Margaret. “I’m afraid she would think you 
very ill-bred. She was always so severe if any of 
us did not answer our elders quite politely. We 
should have been afraid to behave as you are behav- 
ing.” ^ 

This time Pamela heeded the warning nudge be- 
stowed upon her by Sara, and sat there, silent but un- 
repentant. She felt that she had struck a blow in 
favor of Aunt Janet. Poor Aunt Janet who had 
been down-trodden and brow-beaten for so many 
years. 

A diversion was created at this somewhat critical 
juncture by some one opening the door rather hesi- 
tatingly. 

Janet Ponsford came into the room. 


CHAPTER XXXII 

T he first impression that Janet made upon the 
assembled Ponsfords was a favorable one, in 
so far as her own appearance was concerned. Mrs. 
Fortune bent over to Louisa Dacreson and whi§- 


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337 


pered: “I never saw her look so well before. And 
younger. . . . But, of course, Sara’s been seeing to 
her clothes.” She was voicing the secret opinion of 
all the ladies present. 

Janet was pale but composed; there wa» no sign 
of the old timidity, and her blue eyes were shining. 
She wore a dark blue dress with a little touch of 
white showing at the base of the throat. They all 
tried to catch a glimpse of her left hand to see 
what kind of ring she was wearing. Unconscious 
of this, Janet lifted her hand to her hair, and her 
sisters caught the gleam of a diamond. A diamond ! 
How on earth did this pauper manage to give her 
a diamond? Probably she would receive the bill 
for it after her marriage. They all feared there 
were many unpleasant experiences of the kind in 
store for her. ... 

“Good-morning, my dear Janet,” said Colonel 
Fortune in a brisk encouraging tone. He was anx- 
ious to establish friendly relations at once. It 
would never do to quarrel with Janet, it would 
only crystallize her determination to marry this 
highly ineligible person. 

“Good-morning, Gerard,” said Janet. She gave 
her hand in turn to all present. But when she came 
to John, she smiled a little and sat down near him. 
There was such a sense of solid protection about 
John. 

She sat there, mute, motionless, a certain pathos 
mingling with her attitude of untoward determina- 
tion. 

“We’ve been discussing this — er — proposed mar- 
riage of yours,” said Colonel Fortune. 

Pamela’s clear and bell-like voice sounded across 
the room. 

“You must be very careful what you say. Aunt 
Janet, or Uncle Gerard will want to box your ears !” 

She enjoyed playing the conscious role of enfant 


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terrible, and Colonel Fortune’s attack had roused 
within her an ardent desire to shake something of 
the “Ponsfordishness” out of the little assembly. 

Appealing glances were shot at Stephen and Sara 
as if to entreat that this almost blasphemous imper- 
tinence should be severely rebuked. It was seen, 
however, that while Stephen preserved an expression 
of decorous immobility, his wife was trying to 
restrain her laughter. 

“That’s a bit too thick, Pamela,” growled Cosmo 
Bradney; “if you don’t dry up some one will throw 
you out of the room and punch your silly little 
head.” 

“Don’t squabble, children,” said Sara. Cosmo 
turned an angry red at this light reprimand which 
beyond doubt included himself. He flashed a 
furious glance at Sara and Pamela. There was a 
brief uncomfortable silence, during which Janet was 
seen turning to John and murmuring something in his 
ear. 

“Janet, I may as well tell you at once that we all 
highly disapprove of your marrying this man. We 
know nothing at all about him except that he has no 
money, and that dear Mamma dislikes him very 
much and is opposed to the marriage. Of course if 
you intend to go against her. . . .” Margaret’s 
voice came thin and querulous across the room. 

“I have nothing to say except that I’m engaged to 
Mr. Lorimer and that I mean to marry him. He is 
a friend of Johnny’s — that ought to be enough for 
us all,” said Janet. 

She looked up at John’s stern and immovable 
face as if entreating him to say something in his 
friend’s favor or defence. But John maintained a 
rigid silence. 

“A protege, I should say. Not a friend,” cor- 
rected Louisa Dacreson. 

Again that swift glance at John — a look at once 


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tender and pleading. But John did not meet the 
glance; his silence chilled her. 

“Does it matter so much to you if I marry him 
or not?” said Janet. There was a little break in 
her voice. 

“Of course it matters a great deal — especially to 
Giles. Besides, the man’s an adventurer — he’s 
after your money. Every one says so. Mamma is 
convinced of it — she saw through him almost as soon 
as he entered the house. You’ll be back on our 
hands penniless in a few months.” Louisa Dacre- 
son’s voice was somberly prophetic. 

“Aunt Janet’s only got to keep her securities 
locked up in the bank, and her check-book in her 
own hands, and her money’ll be quite safe.” 
Pamela spoke with something of her mother’s crisp 
decisive tones. 

Janet shot a glance, half-astonished, half-grate- 
ful at her young niece. That fearless courage at 
once attracted and slightly repelled her. Never at 
any time of her life would she have dared address 
her own uncles and aunts in such a manner. She 
wondered that Stephen should permit it, even though 
he had relinquished all things connected with the 
education of their offspring into Sara’s hands. 

“I mean to marry him,” said Janet; “of course. 
I’m very sorry Mamma doesn’t like the idea. I 
hope you will soon see Denis for yourselves — he’s 
promised to look in this morning. He ... he 
wants to see you all.” 

She looked around nervously at the assembled 
Ponsfords, and wondered what Denis would think 
of them, seen thus as a tribe — as a collective group 
of individuals firmly united in their hostility, which 
was directed wholly towards himself. But she felt 
that it was precisely now that Denis’s cosmopolitan 
training would stand him in good stead. He had 
in the course of a roving, purposeless life encoun- 


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tered men and women of varying nationalities. He 
was intimately acquainted with several countries be- 
sides his own. Yes, she felt that he would be equal 
to them all, bright, courteous, but hard as tempered 
steel. When they saw him she was certain that, 
despite their preconceived prejudices, they would 
understand why she loved him. The beauty of his 
face and voice — the charm of his manner . . . She 
longed for, even while she dreaded, that moment 
of his dramatic entrance. For it would be dramatic. 
. . . While she instinctively disliked the histrionic 
touch he sometimes displayed, she believed that be- 
neath it was the fine gold of absolute sincerity and 
truth. 

“She’s quite changed,” murmured Louisa Dacre- 
son to her sister; “she doesn’t seem at all afraid of 
Mamma any more. It’s extraordinary. . . .” She 
looked aggrieved; she did not know this new Janet, 
calm, assured, almost self-possessed. 

“I never thought she could be made to look so 
nearly pretty,” said Margaret. “It’s the clothes, 
of course. But I never liked Sara’s taste, and I 
can’t bear the way she dresses Pamela. She looks 
horribly bad style.” 

They glanced at Pamela, at her black bobbed 
hair, her wide forehead, the dark calm eyes that 
surveyed them with such cool dispassionate criti- 
cism. That bright green thing made her look so 
conspicuous. No wonder Lady Cullingdon took the 
first opportunity of packing her off home from Paris. 

“A love affair always makes a woman look 
younger,” said Louisa Dacreson. “It’s the first 
time Janet has ever had an offer. I wonder what 
he sees in her?” 

“He sees six hundred a year, and more when dear 
Mamma dies,” replied Margaret Fortune bitterly. 

“I must say she’s extraordinarily improved in 
appearance,” said Louisa. “Of course she always 


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had decent features . . . but being so ill and neu- 
rotic . . She shrugged her shoulders. 

The Ponsfords all possessed sharp hearing, and 
a slight stir upon the landing outside communicated 
as if by magic a suddenly alert, vigilant expression 
to their assembled faces. They were like soldiers 
who have become aware of the presence of a foe 
who is still invisible to them. And like good soldiers 
they nerved themselves for the encounter. Colonel 
Fortune drew himself up to his full height of five 
feet six inches, and his face assumed a bland but 
haughty expression similar to that one he had found 
useful in repelling the advances of the profane in 
foreign embassies. The sword of the officer and 
the tongue of the diplomat were both, so to speak, 
in polished readiness for the fray. This man must 
be made to see that Janet’s relations were people 
of importance. He had been misled perhaps by 
that dilapidated old Grange where Mrs. Ponsford 
lived. . . . Louisa and Margaret looked disdain- 
fully critical, as if they knew their most profound 
fears would be more than fulfilled. Edwy fixed 
his eyeglasses upon his nose, and wished he had 
thought of getting a monocle like Uncle Gerard’s. 
His mouth dropped open foolishly. Pamela darted 
across the room and sat down on Janet’s other side 
and took her hand in hers with a spontaneous ges- 
ture of sympathy. Violet smiled signifipntly at 
Sara, and Father John’s face became if possible more 
impassively rigid than before. 

The door was thrown open and Mr. Lorimer was 
announced. He came in very quickly as if he had 
hastened hither with the knowledge that he was rep- 
rehensivelv late. He stopped short, however, soon 
after crossing the threshold, and gazed around him, 
astonished perhaps to find the room so full of people. 
He towered above the assembled Ponsfords, a great 
rather gaunt figure, and his black eyes swept them 


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with an amused, interrogative glance. Then his 
gaze fell upon Janet quietly sitting there between 
John and that handsome child, Pamela, and his 
whole face softened. 

Sara rose and said: “Mr. Lorimer, let me in- 
troduce you. ... You see, we’re rather a large 
family. Lady Bradney, Mrs. Dacreson, Mrs. For- 
tune — my sisters-in-law. Sir Cosmo Bradney . . . 
Colonel Fortune . . . Mr. Dacreson . . . Mr. 
Edwy Ponsford . . 

Her easy voice relieved the tension. She and 
Pamela were the calmest people in the room. Even 
Stephen in that moment seemed to range himself 
nervously and half-unconsciously on the side of the 
Ponsfords in the presence of this common foe. 

“Actorish” . . . yes, that was Sara’s word . . . 
It was no doubt that very quality in him that had 
made Mrs. Ponsford dub him a mountebank. An 
actor — yes, and a provincial actor at that. The 
kind of good looks that very young girls were wont 
to lose their heads over. So ran Louisa’s thoughts. 
But Janet . . . Why, her very fear of her mother, 
her regard for her peace of mind, her deeply-in- 
stilled respect for her opinion, should have deterred 
her from listening to such a man as that, no matter 
how honeyed and specious the phrase ! . . . 

Colonel Fortune looked at his sister-in-law, now 
that he had seen for himself the object upon which 
her first and only passionate love had been bestowed, 
as if she had been something quite monstrously un- 
fathomable. Janet — so delicate, so sheltered . . . 
Janet to be sought in marriage by this needy adven- 
turer! And Janet with all her careful upbringing, 
after so many years of almost cloistered life, not 
only to listen but to respond. A sense of impotent 
anger shook him.. He violently disliked Denis. He 
flattered himself he knew the type quite well. One 
meets that kind of adventurer in the dregs of an 


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English colony in foreign cities — the sort of man 
who generally for very good reasons has had to 
leave England and bury himself abroad. What on 
earth had Johnny been about, to dream even of tak- 
ing such a man as that to Wanswater? . . . 

Denis leaned towards Janet and said; 

“Not too tired to-day, darling?” 

“No, Denis,” she answered. 

“Have they been here long?” 

“Yes — a good time.” 

“What a lot of them there are! I don’t think 
any families look attractive en masse , do you?” 

He was obsessed by an uncomfortable convic- 
tion that somewhere, at some time or other, he had 
seen Colonel Fortune before. 

“It’s been rather awful, you know,” she whis- 
pered. 

Yes, she was really in love with him, and he could 
play upon her like an instrument. That, watching 
them, was Louisa Dacreson’s opinion. 

“Janet tells us that she is engaged to you,” said 
Colonel Fortune, wondering whether he had seen 
Denis before or only met his type a hundred times. 
“I’m one of her trustees, you know. There’ll have 
to be a settlement . . He paused and glanced 
swiftly at Denis. 

“I understand that your trusteeship expires on 
her marriage,” retorted Denis. “And as to settle- 
ments, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to bring any- 
thing into settlement.” 

It was a frank avowal of insolvency. 

“It is true that our trusteeship expires, but our 
moral obligation to protect her interests continues,” 
said the colonel. “Her father, unfortunately, al- 
though under the circumstances very naturally, did 
not take into serious consideration the possibility of 
her — marrying.” 

“Janet and I are going to be married the first 


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week in February, Colonel Fortune,” said Denis. 
“We are not going to ask any one’s consent, and I 
think you may take it that your moral obligation 
will cease on her wedding-day.” 

“Hear — hear,” said Pamela. 

“Oh, well, if that’s your attitude, Mr. Lorimer — ” 
said Colonel Fortune. 

“Yes, that’s my attitude,” said Denis imperturb- 
ably, but as he spoke his eyes turned involuntarily 
towards the woman at his side. “We shall be mar- 
ried as soon as we can get through with all the for- 
malities. Speaking for myself, I don’t care about 
settlements, and I think I’m right in saying that 
Janet doesn’t either. We shall be married as 
quietly as possible.” 

“Do I understand that you have no means at all 
— that you intend to live entirely upon your wife’s 
money?” inquired Colonel Fortune. 

“I haven’t any money. But I can work.” He 
held up his right hand. “I’ve got one arm any- 
how.” 

They all glanced significantly at the stiff left 
arm that hung down as straight in the sleeve as if 
it had been an artificial one. 

“But will you work? That is the question,” said 
Cosmo, with a faint touch of insolence. 

Denis laughed, almost boyishly. 

“If Janet can trust me ! . . .” 

“Hear, hear,” said Pamela again. 

“If Janet marries you, you must both understand 
that it will be quite useless for either of you to look 
to us for any help in the future.” Louisa Dacre- 
son’s voice was firm and resonant. 

“We shall wash our hands of her,” said Margaret 
Fortune; “you have neither money nor profession. 
You took advantage of John’s mistaken kindness in 
inviting you to the Grange, to make love to my 
poor sister. If she had had any experience of 


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the world, she would not have listened to you. You 
just took advantage of her weakness — of her ignor- 
ance ... We know nothing about you, and you 
can produce no credentials. Naturally we are op- 
posed to the marriage.” 

“Of course, I know it sounds awful when you 
put it like that,” Denis agreed unexpectedly, “but 
we’ll hope for the best. I shall soon find something 
to do, and if Janet isn’t satisfied, she’s got lots 
of time in which to back out.” 

There was something boyish in his easy confidence, 
in this appeal, as it were, for a little indulgence 
from them all. He could at least show them that 
their dismal prophecies had failed to scare him, 
and that he could still take a bright hopeful view 
of the future. And if Janet didn’t mind his lack 
of means, his maimed arm, why should they? 

“Lots of people have got married on far worse 
prospects than ours,” he affirmed. 

“Janet is many years older than you. And her 
health has always been bad and uncertain.” 
Louisa’s voice struck across a brief dismayed pause. 

“Oh, I know all about her health,” said Denis; 
“she’s simply never had a chance. Boxed up at 
Wanswater from year’s end to year’s end with a 
harsh unsympathetic mother, and a fiend of a ser- 
vant eternally spying on her. I flatter myself that 
I can make her a little happier than that!” His 
eyes flashed. 

“I must request you not to speak of our mother 
in that impertinent way,” said Mrs. Fortune, indig- 
nantly. “Dear Mamma has devoted herself to 
Janet — her one thought all these years has been 
for her welfare. She can have received but little 
thanks or gratitude, since Janet is willing to accept 
the first stranger who comes along and invites her 
to marry him.” 

“Can you tell me that Mrs. Ponsford has ever 


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been anything else but harsh and unsympathetic to 
Janet?” demanded Denis passionately. “To me 
it’s appalling to think of what her life must have 
been. She has never complained — ^you mustn’t think 
that — she’s too much of a saint. But I’ve been 
there — I’ve seen for myself.” 

“I am not going to stay and hear dear Mamma 
abused,” said Margaret, rising from her chair with 
flushed and agitated countenance. “I wonder that 
Janet allows it. But I am afraid we must cease to 
look for any evidence of good feeling from Janet.” 

“You must have seen how she was terrorized,” 
continued Denis; “it’s that more than anything, 
that’s affected her health. I’m never going to let 
her be frightened again.” He looked down at 
Janet with a protective glance. 

“I’m sure you’ll make good, Denis,” said Sara 
in her unruffled way, “And anyhow, Stephen and 
I don’t mean to wash our hands of you and Janet. 
You’ll always be welcome here whenever you like 
to come. We shall hope to see quite a lot of you 
when you’re in London.” 

They all looked at Stephen, expecting at least an 
indignant disclaimer from him, a denial of his own 
participation in any such friendly and hospitable 
intentions ; something, in short, to show that he was 
not meditating such perfidious infidelity to Pons- 
ford principles. But there was, alas, nothing of 
the kind forthcoming from Stephen, who only smiled 
sheepishly, though quite acquiescently, at his wife. 
He didn’t of course think she was right . . . but 
there it was. . . . 

“I cannot think that the continuance of this dis- 
cussion can serve any useful purpose,” said Colonel 
Fortune, in his loftiest and most diplomatic tones. 
“If Janet persists in flying in the face of the advice 
of all those who truly care for her, she has at least 


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reached an age when women are presumed to be 
responsible.” A dry smile flickered about his lips. 
“I can only add that I’m sorry Mr. Lorimer has 
spoken of Mrs. Ponsford in the way he did just now. 
That alienates any sympathy we might have learnt 
to feel for him.” He looked at his wife, who came 
obediently towards him. “Margaret, we’re lunch- 
ing out, you know.” He shook hands with the as- 
sembled Ponsfords and their mates, gave a couple 
of fingers to Cosmo and Pamela successively, bowed 
very haughtily to Denis and Janet, as if to empha- 
size the disgrace into which marriage would plunge 
them, and made a dignified exit with his wife. Mr. 
Dacreson collected his Louisa and Edwy and de- 
parted. Soon the Stephen Ponsfords were left 
alone with Father John, Janet, and Denis Lorimer. 

“That’s over, thank goodness,” said Sara, with 
a sigh of relief. “Denis — ^you must stay to luncheon 
with Janet and Pamela. Stephen and I are going out. 
I just wanted to say that of course Janet’ll stay 
with us till the wedding, and you must come and 
see her as often as you can. I think we might start 
in with her trousseau this afternoon — there’s no 
time to be lost.” 

He felt that her kind little speech signified his 
formal adoption into the family whose members had 
for the most part explicitly “washed their hands” of 
him and Janet. He was so grateful, that a lump 
rose in his throat. If only Johnny would say some- 
thing nice like that, to show that in spite of all 
things he didn’t wholly disapprove ! . • 

“It’s most awfully kind of you to befriend us like 
this,” he said gratefully. 

“Well, somebody must see to things,” said the 
practical Sara. 

But she was touched nevertheless by his words. 


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CHAPTER XXXIII 

T O Janet the succeeding weeks flew, and she 
was even, a little dismayed to find how rapidly 
February was approaching. There was still so much 
to be done, although she had relinquished the task 
of buying her trousseau, into Sara’s able hands. 
There were other matters- that needed her time, and 
she could not possibly divert all her attention from 
Denis. Yet the spiritual things claimed her, con- 
vincing her of their paramount importance. She 
was increasingly aware, too, of the part they were 
to* play in that new life of hers. . . . 

But her path was not altogether easy, in spite of 
Sara’s unvarying kindness, and Pamela’s careless 
confident courage, stimulating though impossible of 
adoption. Mrs. Ponsford had written once to. her 
daughter, a long and bitter letter, intimating that 
she could not receive her at Wanswater after her 
marriage to that “mountebank.” Janet wept over 
the letter, which seemed to cut her off abruptly from 
all her former life. . . . Stephen also received a 
very severe missive from his mother, wondering how 
he and Sara could possibly have lent themselves to 
helping Janet in this way. Stephen was dismayed to 
find his mother’s attitude so inflexibly condemnatory. 
He wondered whether even now it wasn’t too late 
to draw back, and refuse to keep Janet with them in 
Green Street, advising her to return home. Sara, 
however, speedily crushed these faint signs of “wob- 
bling.” Why shouldn’t Janet marry Denis if she 
wanted to? They knew nothing whatever against 
him except that he hadn’t any money. That was 
probably more his misfortune than his fault. 

Mrs. Ponsford’s letter to her son went on to say 
that Janet was a prodigal daughter. She was bent 
on becoming a Catholic (of course they had Johnny 


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349 


to thank for that, he was beginning to reap the 
punishment he deserved for having left the Church 
of England) — and she obstinately refused to give 
up this man, who would most certainly run through 
all her money as fast as possible, and then desert 
her. Gerard Fortune had written to say that he 
looked just the kind of man who would poison his 
wife in order to obtain possession of her money. 
And of course Janet would be fool enough to play 
into his hand by making a will in his favor. She 
was weak-minded, she wasn’t normal. She= — Mrs. 
Ponsford — only wished she had followed dear 
Margaret’s advice and placed Janet long ago in a 
home, where she could have been well looked after 
and kindly treated. Nothing of the kind could pos- 
sibly have happened, then. 

Sara treated all the Ponsford correspondence with 
cool imperturbability. There was a great deal of 
it at this critical juncture, and it included a letter 
from Giles, full of reproach and anger. No one 
spared poor John. He was primarily responsible 
for becoming a Catholic, despite the strict train- 
ing he had received at the hands of their dear father, 
and then for bringing this needy adventurer, this 
vulgar mountebank, to Wanswater. “And now, 
from what they tell me, this Lorimer will probably 
take poor foolish Janet to some little remote place 
abroad and slowly poison her,” wrote Giles. “1 
fear John’s conscience will reproach him bitterly in 
the future for all the suffering he will have been 
instrumental in bringing upon his sister.” There 
was a marked tendency in all the letters to fix the 
whole of the blame upon John. 

Gerard Fortune’s suggestion about the poison had 
been eagerly adopted by the Ponsfords. One read 
of such things — men who had made away with wife 
after wife, to secure their money for themselves. 
Some one really ought to stop the match, even if it 


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were necessary to keep Janet hidden in durance vile 
for a time. They must be cruel in order to be kind. 
Then there was sometimes a final appeal to John. 
Couldn’t he use his influence? He had always been 
able to manage Janet in her more obstinate moods, 
when even Hodge couldn’t do anything with her. 
It was surely John’s duty to rescue his sister from 
the terrible position in which his carelessness had 
placed her. . . . 

But John gave them no reason to think he could 
change the stars in their courses. The mighty love 
that had swept poor repressed and suffering Janet 
off her feet, was not a calm stream that could be 
deflected by another’s will. It was a strong im- 
petuous full-flowing river. It endowed Denis with 
every quality that was noble, chivalrous and true. 
One could hardly recognize Janet now in this lov- 
ing determined woman. Sara believed that she 
might even change Denis, giving him strength of 
purpose such as he had never known before. But in 
any case the wedding preparations went forward 
without word of remonstrance from Father John. 

The brilliant ceremony in Westminster Cathedral 
which Pamela had pictured with so much imagination 
was not destined to materialize. Instead, the wed- 
ding was to take place at a quiet little church in 
the byways of Notting Hill, near which Denis was at 
present staying in a couple of small and cheap rooms, 
which were all that he could afford. John, who 
was staying on Campden Hill near the Carmelite 
Church, had strolled once or twice down Holland 
Park Avenue, turning off to the right before he 
came to the bottom of that long wide thoroughfare, 
to seek the gray mean little street where Denis was 
living. He had knocked at the door, but had al- 
ways received the same answer — Mr. Lorimer was 
not at home. John had supposed him to be out 
with Janet, yet sometimes when later he had gone 


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351 


round to Green Street to see his sister, it was only 
to learn that Denis had not been there all day. His 
absences never disturbed Janet in the least. She 
neither questioned nor doubted him. 

John wondered sometimes, if Denis was purposely 
avoiding him. This suspicion deepened his slowly 
growing distrust of the man his sister was deter- 
mined to marry. 

He was engaged in making plans for a speedy 
return to Rome after the wedding. He was study- 
ing hard, and the old ambition to become a Bene- 
dictine was much in his thoughts. But always there 
was the hope — the fear — that the marriage might 
not take place, that Janet would still need his help. 

One morning he heard a timid knock at the door 
of his sitting-room. He rose and opened it and saw 
Janet standing there on the threshold. The day 
was cold and the wind had touched her cheeks to a 
bright rosiness. 

“Johnny dear — I’ve been received. I’m a Catho- 
lic now.” Her blue eyes were shining. 

He looked at her in astonishment. 

“But, Jane darling, you know so little. I thought 
you’d put off the idea of it until after your marriage, 
as there was so little time.” 

“No — I’ve been working hard. That’s why I’ve 
seen so little of Denis and you and Sara.” 

“But who received you, dear?” 

She gave him the name of a well-known priest. 
“You see, mine was rathei an exceptional case — 
I did so want to be a Catholic before I was married. 
And Denis wouldn’t wait till after Easter, and 
then I thought, too, it would be a trouble for Sara 
to have me for so long. And I’d been thinking of it 
for ages — I learned a lot by heart out of that book 
you gave me at Wanswater. You know. I’m stupid 
about remembering unless I learn a thing by heart.” 

“I’m glad it wasn’t quite so precipitate as I 


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thought at first, Janet,” he said feeling rather re- 
lieved. “IVe always hoped you’d be a Catholic one 
of these days. I remember Lorimer speaking to me 
about it when he first came to the Grange. And I 
told him I felt it would be impossible during my 
mother’s lifetime.” 

“I’ve often noticed,” said Janet, “that there’s sel- 
dom only one convert in a family. If one comes, 
another is sure to follow. I’m glad I’ve been the 
one to follow. ...” 

“It will help you a great deal,” said John. “Lor- 
imer even then said it would.” He was thinking 
of how swift and strong had been the interest and 
sympathy she had aroused in Denis. He had seen 
everything so clearly, even if he had committed 
the error of somewhat exaggerating the culpability 
of Hodge. Nor had he been quite just to Mrs. 
Ponsford in his haste to condemn the “treatment” 
meted out to Janet. 

John felt that the Catholic Church would endow 
her with that so essential spiritual equilibrium which 
reacts powerfully upon the physical nature, bringing 
it into a kind of harmony. It would give her poise 
and stability in that new and strange liberty which 
had come to her. For it was a dangerous experiment 
— this freeing of her from a servitude whose meas- 
ure John had only lately begun to gauge. And the 
circumstances of her coming marriage were such as 
promised but few elements of security. She was 
marrying a man of whose reverse side she knew 
nothing at all. There might be very bitter moments 
of disillusionment ahead of her, should she ever 
discover that side of her husband’s character. John 
was glad to think she would have the wise spiritual 
guidance of the Catholic Church through all these 
dangers and difficulties. . . . 

“Johnny — I understand now what is meant by 
the Kock. Why, I can almost feel it under my feet. 


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353 


And it’s wonderful — that sense of welcome^ — it is 
the only thing on earth I think that can give one 
any idea of the joy of the soul when it enters 
Heaven. . . . The poor little weak erring soul ad- 
mitted to that wonderful home — ^yes, and wel- 
comed. . . Her whole face was curiously ecstatic, 
as of one who had tasted to the full an ineffable 
spiritual joy. “Johnny — I’d like to tell you some- 
thing. I used to think it would kill me if anything 
separated me from Denis ... I felt I couldn’t live 
without him. Even if you had been against the 
marriage — if you hadn’t been Denis’s friend — it 
couldn’t have prevented me from marrying him. 
But now it’s all different, and I feel I could let him 
go if he wished it, without breaking my heart. I 
could let him go and still be happy. I could pray 
for him — we shouldn’t really be separated ... I 
should feel that his soul still belonged to me in some 
inexplicable way — that I could help him with my 
prayers. Even if he were to die, I don’t think 
he would seem so very far away. Catholics 
keep so close to their dead with their constant 
prayers for them — their constant thought of help- 
ing them.” 

So she was beginning to learn her first steps in 
spiritual detachment — a quality that so often seems 
to set the devout Catholic a little apart and aloof 
from his fellows. 

“Dear Janet, I hope you’ll be the best Catholic 
that ever was.” He touched her hand lightly. “I’m 
so glad you came to tell me directly. Does Denis 
know?” 

“Not yet,” she confessed; “I didn’t want to tell 
him till it was over. He would have wanted to 
come — I should have been thinking too much of 
him. Johnny — I was jealous — I wanted to give all 
my thoughts to Our Blessed Lord to-day. Can’t 
you understand the feeling? Even Denis didn t 


354 AVERAGE CABINS 

count — before that tremendous thing I was going 
to do.’\ 

“I think you were quite right. I know I couldn’t 
bear any one near me at the time. You want to 
give yourself up so completely.” 

“Yes,” she assented. 

“Shall I come back with you to Sara’s now? 
You mustn’t overtire yourself, you know.” 

His tone was one of gentlest solicitude. 

“Oh, I’m not a bit tired. I never felt so strong 
— so well. But I should love you to come with 
me, if you’re not too busy.” 

“No — I’m not busy now. And I’d like to see 
Denis. Is he to be there?” 

“Yes — he’s coming to lunch. Sara and Pamela 
are both to be there, too.” 

Soon they were driving eastward together in a 
taxi. On the way, John said : 

“You’ll have to help Denis, you know. He’ll 
need a lot of help.” 

“Will he ? But I’m the weak one,” she answered, 
with an incredulous happy laugh. 

“Sometimes I wish you were going to marry a dif- 
ferent sort of man.” 

“You mustn’t be anxious. I’ve such a strong feel- 
ing that it’s going to turn out all right. If I hadn’t, 
I think they would have frightened me that day 
when they all came to try and induce me to break 
it off.” 

He changed the subject. 

“I’m going to Wanswater for the week-end to 
see Mother.” 

“But you’ll be back in time? You mustn’t let 
her persuade you to stay.” 

“Oh, I shall come back in time, unless anything 
very unforseen happens.” 

“Because you see . . . it’s to be on Thursday 
week. . . she reminded him timidly. 


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355 


“Yes, dear, I haven’t forgotten.” 

“You must try to make Mamma see things dif- 
ferently. I wish she were to be there. I’m afraid 
she thinks I’ve behaved badly.” 

“I’ll do my best to make peace, you may depend,” 
he answered. 

“And say kind things of Denis. . . 

“Yes — all I possibly can.” 

She observed again that curious reticence which 
seemed to characterize him whenever he spoke of 
Denis. But she did not dare question him. 

“You must tell her that I’ve become a Catholic.” 

“Yes — she ought to know that too. But she 
must have been expecting it.” 

The taxi drew up before the Ponsfords’ big 
brown-brick house in Green Street. They found 
Sara in the drawing-room, glancing at a novel. She 
looked up as they came in. 

“Denis has just telephoned to say that he’s been 
kept in the City, so he won’t be here to lunch.” 

Janet’s face fell a little. She had been eager 
to communicate her wonderful news to Denis. She 
looked at John, but his face was grave and impassive 
as usual. She felt then that if she had a secret that 
she did not wish any one to know she could tell 
it to John without fear. Even without the seal of 
the confessional. . . . 

But what could have kept Denis to-day? His 
absence seemed to cast a slight shadow over her 
radiant joy. John felt it, too, although his face 
showed no sign of disappointment. He wondered 
if Denis would continue to grieve J'anet in the 
future by still longer and perhaps more inexplicable 
absences. He was angry with him, and angry with 
himself too, for entertaining such harsh thoughts 
of him on so slight a provocation. 

After luncheon Sara suggested that Janet should 
go up to her room and rest a little. “We have 


AVERAGE CABINS 


356 

to go to that tiresome dressmaker at four and you 
must lie down for a bit,” she said. 

Janet was too tired not to comply. “But you’ll 
send up and tell me when Denis comes?” she 
said as she was leaving the room-. 

Sara promised. But when Janet had closed the 
door she turned to John and said: “// he does 
come. I can’t say that my confidence in him in- 
creases on better acquaintance. I’ve been trying 
to hide this from Stephen and Pamela, and from 
Janet herself. But I must speak openly to you, 
John.” 

It coincided so exactly with what John himself 
was feeling, that he had some difficulty in conceal- 
ing from Sara his complete agreement. 

“I mean,” continued Sara, “that I should never 
be surprised if he weren’t forthcoming on his wed- 
ding day. He’s elusive — and then I often feel he’s 
playing a part.” 

“I wonder if that sort of thing ever strikes 
Janet?” said John. 

“She’d never say so,” said Sara. Her tone was 
slightly lugubrious. She hated being mixed up with 
any matter that seemed predestined to failure, like 
a clever barrister who will not undertake a case 
that promises little or no chance of success. Sara 
was not one to lead a forlorn hope. She had 
helped Janet hitherto, because she was really fond 
of her and genuinely sorry for her, and she wanted 
to release her from the life she had led at Wans- 
water. But lately she had felt much less sure of 
Denis, and in this new light it did sometimes seem 
to her that old Mrs. Ponsford, the Grange, Hodge, 
and all the rest of it did spell security, even if it 
were the kind of security extended to prisoners in 
their cells. Light and air and liberty were all ter- 
ribly lacking, yet the want of these essentials would 
hardly justify a person in rushing to the other ex- 


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357 


treme and seeking freedom in a land perpetually 
shaken by severe earthquakes. If one had to de- 
plore anything, it was that the doors of that prison- 
house should have been opened by a Denis Lorimer, 
handsome in his way, plausible and attractive. Dan- 
gerously attractive to a woman so guarded and 
sheltered as Janet had always been. Not that Sara 
had been influenced in the least by Gerard Fortune’s 
dismal prognostications, but setting aside all 
exaggeration, there was ample reason for mis- 
giving. 

When Lorimer was present, Sara always liked 
him to the point of approving of the marriage, but 
his absence stirred anew her anxiety and doubt. 

It was a relief to pour out her thoughts in this 
way to so safe an ear as John’s. 

“Of course, all marriages are a risk,” she said 
suddenly. “Even those when everything seems quite 
perfect. One has seen them smash up over and 
over again.” 

“Yes,” agreed John. He felt that his thoughts 
and Sara’s were traveling down twin roads. 

“And then if she weren’t so dreadfully happy I” 
pursued Sara. 

“You can’t do anything,” said John, with sudden 
decision. “And she has cut herself free from Wans- 
water by becoming a Catholic. You know how 
much my mother dislikes it — I don’t think she’s 
really forgiven me yet in her heart of hearts. Of 
course she looks upon it, too, as an insult to my 
father’s memory. So if Janet doesn’t marry Denis, 
what is she to do in the future? She never really 
liked the idea of living near me at Gillingsea.” 

“Oh, she could live alone in a flat with a good 
maid,” said Sara. “She could manage quite well 
on her income. Janet has no expensive tastes — 
she dislikes spending money on herself — even for 
her trousseau!” 


358 AVERAGE CABINS 

John shook his head. “She’ll never give him 
up,” he said. 

It was an opening, and Sara instantly took advan- 
tage of it. 

“But if he gives her up?” 

John stared straight in front of him. Denis’s 
absence that day had emphasized his own private 
fear that had sprung from the feeling that he had 
of late persistently avoided him. 

“Has he done anything to make you think he in- 
tends to? You surely can’t be going on his not 
turning up to-day.” 

“Oh, no — but it’s an accumulation of little things. 
I daresay you’ll think it’s too subtle a view to take 
of the case . . . but he expected opposition, and 
except for that one family council, it’s all been 
tacit and invisible. He played up so gracefully to 
the gallery that day, didn’t he? I admired him 
so much that I almost belieyed in him ! And then 
one saw he was enjoying himself. . . . But now he 
hasn’t got any part to play and I think he’s dis- 
appointed. I’ve made everything so simple and 
easy for him, just taking it for granted that he and 
Janet are like any ordinary engaged couple — eager 
to see as much of each other as possible, and all 
that. I wanted to depriye him of all scope for 
histrionics . . . and it’s made him restiye. He 
doesn’t realize it’s just my way of testing him. 
I’d do a lot for Janet, you know.” 

It certainly sounded rather complicated and subtle, 
still there might be a good deal of truth in it. On 
the other hand Denis might have discovered, as 
the wedding day drew near, that he had made an 
appalling mistake. He might be simply seeking for 
a loophole of escape. It would hurt Janet griev- 
ously, but the words she had spoken to-day reas- 
sured John a little. It would no longer kill her, as 
she had expressed it, to lose him. She could never 


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359 

feel such separation complete. John believed that 
the conviction had been a genuine one with her, 
and not merely a fugitive product of that first won- 
derful fervor of the new convert. . . . 

“Dear me, I hope Pamela will never give me all 
this trouble,” said Sara, with a little laugh. “She’s 
got such a tremendous will of her own . . . she’s 
absolutely American, you know. I can’t find any 
lurking trace of Ponsfordism in her.” 

John smiled dryly. “It is too British a quality,* 
perhaps, to flourish on American soil.” 

“There’s a lot of it in Gilbert, though,” she said. 
“He’s as English as Pamela is American. I sup- 
pose that’s why I really care most for Pamela. I 
understand her better.” 

Her thoughts were momentarily diverted from 
her sister-in-law. But she soon resumed the tale 
of her woes concerning Janet. 

“If I dared, I would give her a hint ... of 
what I’m thinking. But it would be cruel, and then 
it might prove to be unnecessary. Stephen had an- 
other odious letter from Giles this morning. It 
seems that Edwy has gone home and given a very 
unflattering account of Denis. Told them he was 
certain that he’d hypnotized Janet — he had such 
peculiar eyes, and that was why she didn’t have those 
fainting-fits any more.” 

“Adding, too, that he intended to poison her and 
get hold of her money,” added John grimly. 
“Well, we may be sure of one thing, that he’ll fall 
short of their gloomiest prophecies. Denis wouldn’t 
hurt a fly.” 

There was a little pause which Sara broke by 
saying : 

“John, what do you know about him? Where 
did he come from? You have known him a good 
long lime, haven’t you? You wouldn’t have taken 
a complete stranger like that to Wanswater.” 


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“I acted under a sudden impulse,” said John. “1 
met him at Euston, as you know, on my way home, 
and it seemed the only charitable thing to do. He 
was in pretty low water, and I believe he was nearly 
starving. I thought that a week or two of quiet, 
of rest, of good food . . .” 

He stopped abruptly. Sara’s eyes were bright 
and searching. 

“Of course, it’s all turned out very differently 
from what I hoped and expected,” he continued. “I 
never foresaw complications. I’m afraid I was too 
hasty. But I knew he’d been hard hit in Rome — 
by some love affair ... I am not betraying any 
confidence, for it was freely gossiped about last 
winter there. And he was so utterly at the end of 
his tether — spiritually and physically. I don’t think 
any priest could have refused to hold out a 
helping hand to a fellow-Catholic in such dis- 
tress.” 

“He was acting, of course,” said Sara bitterly. 

“I can’t be sure of that. But he literally had 
no money — that was true, at any rate. As for his 
people, I never knew any of them. His mother 
died when he was a little chap, and his father was 
a bit of a rolling-stone. Educated him when he 
could afford it, which wasn’t always or even often. 
And to go back to that night — I felt I simply could 
not let him go. But I ought to have hit upon some 
other scheme. . . .” 

“Well, there’s no way out that I can see,” said 
Sara ; “Janet’s made up her mind to marry him, and 
marry him she certainly will, unless he throws her 
over, which I’ve begun to consider isn’t quite im- 
probable. I’ve felt sometimes as if he were a guilty 
man, afraid of detection. We must only hope that 
if the wedding does take place, it won’t all end 
in disaster and tragedy. . . .” 

“I hope and pray not, indeed,” said John. Her 


AVERAGE CABINS 361 

words made him feel thoroughly uncomfortable. A 
guilty man ... he alone knew how guilty. 

“You see, she’s never led a normal life. She 
knows far less of the world than my Pamela,” said 
Sara. 

There was no doubt of that. Pamela possessed 
the premature knowledge of life which character- 
ized her generation, and she had the premature 
wisdom also which gave balance and poise to her 
mind, combined with the clear unclouded vision of her 
mother and that capacity for not shirking the truth, 
but for regarding and examining it fearlessly, which 
was part of the equipment Sara had bestowed upon 
her young daughter. 

Thefir conversation was at this juncture brought to 
an abrupt conclusion by the entrance of Denis Lor- 
imer. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

J OHN tried to believe that Denis’s face had not 
changed at all, as he caught sight of him, sit- 
ting there talking to Sara; and yet it had certainly 
seemed to him that a faint cloud had gathered 
upon it, adumbrating an inward dissatisfaction at 
having to confront him. 

But it cleared at once; so quickly indeed, that 
John tried to assure himself that it had been but the 
effect of his own imagination, stimulated perhaps 
by his recent conversation with Sara. 

Denis shook hands with them both. His first 
question was: “Where is Janet?” 

“She’s gone upstairs to rest — I promised to let 
her know when you came.” Sara handed him her 
cigarette case. Denis selected a cigarette, lit it, 
and then said: 


AVERAGE CABINS 


362 

“She’s not ill, is she?’’ 

“No, but I thought she looked tired at lunch. 
I urged her to lie down, as she has to go to the 
dressmaker later.” 

“Janet was received into the Church this morn- 
ing,” said John, quietly. 

“T^eceived into the Church? But she never told 
me!” said Denis in astonishment. “Did you re- 
ceive her, John?” 

“No — she didn’t tell me either, till it was over. 
Then she came round to look me up and I brought 
her back here.” 

“But how could she be ready in such a short 
time?” 

“Well, it wasn’t such a short time as we think. 
She’s been learning about it by herself, but I knew 
she had never had any doubts since she came to my 
Mass that morning she fainted.” 

Denis’s face grew very grave. 

“That was the reason then,” he said, more to 
himself than to John. The sudden flood of faith, 
the realization of that tremendous and transcendent 
Mystery, had illuminated the mind with such swift 
and strong force as to deprive it of physical con- 
sciousness. Fear of a kind — the holy fear that is 
born of awe. . . . Janet then had gone quietly for- 
ward into the fold of the Church, that in that mo- 
ment had seemed to hold out welcoming arms to 
her. 

“I’m glad,” said Denis: “I’m very glad. . . 

His face was grave, even slightly depressed. 

“Of course, it was far better that she should be 
received before her marriage,” said John. 

“Yes — I suppose so,” Denis paused a moment 
and then said: “I’m afraid she’ll expect too much 
of me now.” 

He looked from one to the other as if the idea 
dismayed him. 


AVERAGE CABINS 


363 

“Oh, but we all expect great things of you, Denis,’’ 
said Sara, and though her voice was light, he knew 
that she was in desperate earnest. “We know so 
little about you that you must make good, so as 
not to disappoint us, or make us feel that we’ve 
done very wrong in entrusting Janet to you. 
Stephen and I both feel rather responsible, you 
know.” 

Denis* was silent. Oh, they hadn’t the least idea 
what they were doing! They knew nothing of the 
man to whom they were entrusting Janet. In that 
moment he had a strong insensate wish to confide 
in Sara and throw himself upon her mercy. . . . 
Then he looked at John — at his grave non-committal 
face with its^ touch of holiness, and he re- 
membered. ... 

“You and Stephen aren’t Catholics,” said Denis. 
“You wouldn’t expect the same things from me 
that Janet will.” 

“Of course she’ll want you to be a good Catholic,” 
said John. 

Sara rang the bell, and told the servant who ap- 
peared to let Miss Janet know that Mr. Lorimer 
had come. A little silence fell upon all three as 
they waited for Janet. 

Denis felt as if he were going to see a stranger. 
For this Janet — this woman in her first fervor of 
conversion, who had just passed through that strange 
powerful spiritual regeneration, inconceivable by 
those who have never experienced it — was indeed a 
stranger to him. She would come to him with new 
demands, new insistencies. Sara’s idea of “making 
good” largely consisted in his obtaining adequate 
employment and pursuing it with diligence and per- 
severance, but Janet would ask very different things 
of him. She would have an increased horror, per- 
haps, of those past sins of his, which hitherto he 
had believed she would readily forgive . . . They 


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364 

would put a new barrier between himself and her, 
should she ever come to know of them. 

He was plunged in these intolerable thoughts, 
and when he looked up in response to some slight 
stir, he saw her coming towards him. His eyes 
sought her face for proof of that change. She still 
looked pale and tired, but her eyes were shining 
with a strange almost fierce light. He sprang up 
and went towards her and took her hand. 

‘‘Darling, why didn’t you tell me? I should like 
to have been there.” 

Janet smiled up into his face. 

“But I didn’t want you to be there, Denis. I’ve 
told John why I felt as if I must be alone. I should 
have been thinking of you — ^you would have 
given me distractions. I didn’t want . . . even 
you. ...” 

She sat beside Sara on the sofa. 

“Janet’s learning to be independent,” smiled Sara. 

“So I see,” said Denis. 

His fear had a little diminished. Janet’s manner 
to him was full of an unchanged confidence. 

“Oh, but you’re not angry, Denis?” cried Janet. 

“Angry? My darling child, of course not!” 

“I mean ... I ought perhaps to have told 
you . . .” 

“You need never tell me anything you don’t wish 
to,” said Denis, smiling at her. 

They seemed almost forgetful of the presence of 
Sara and John. 

“Well, I’m going out,” said Sara, rising. “Janet, 
don’t forget to meet me at Madame Blanche’s at 
four. John, are you coming with me?” 

“Yes,” said John. 

“Come back to tea if you like, Denis,” said Sara. 

“If you’ll have me. . . . Don’t let Janet kill her- 
self over all these new frocks.” 

Sara said: “She must be decently turned out. 


AVERAGE CABINS 365 

But ril see that she isn’t overtired. You can bring 
her to Madame Blanche’s.” 

She smiled upon them both in a frank friendly 
way. John said good-bye to them and then followed 
her out of the room. On the landing he said to 
her : 

“It must be all right. ... It must, . . 

He thought Denis was at his best when seen 
with Janet. There was a touch of gaiety in his 
kindness, that seemed to put her completely at 
her ease. She had developed enormously since her 
engagement; it was as if she had been waiting 
for this soft and kindly influence to come into her 
life. 

Sara said quietly: 

“I suppose . . . you pray a great deal for her, 
John ?” 

“Always — every day. ...” 

“You must pray — even more,” said Sara, with 
unwonted seriousness. 

Left alone with Janet, Lorimer drew her nearer 
to him and said: 

“So I’m to have a Catholic wife?” 

“Yes, Denis. You’d rather, wouldn’t you?” 

“I told John I was afraid that it would make you 
expect too much from me.” 

“But of course I expect everything from you. 
And then you can teach me — I don’t know half 
enough yet.” She smiled confidently into his face. 

He looked straight in front of him as if he were 
unwilling to meet that tender candid innocent gaze of 
hers. 

“You mustn’t expect a great deal from me,” he 
said in a voice that sounded almost harsh. “If you 
do, you’ll only be disappointed. I’m not a good 
Catholic . . . I’ve neglected everything for years. 
Don’t you ever wonder why dear old John’s so 
against our marriage?” 


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“But he isn’t against it! He’s always been so 
kind about it,” she contradicted passionately. 

But in her heart she felt that his words were sub- 
stantially true. It was almost a relief to hear her 
own vehement denial of the accusation. 

“You know he’s not,” she said, clinging to his 
hand in her excitement. “Why, you were his own 
friend ... he brought you to Wanswater. I 
liked you first because you were his friend, and he 
asked me to be kind to you — to try to make you feel 
at home. . . .” 

“I’m afraid he must be rather sorry when he looks 
back upon that quixotic action of his,” said Denis 
grimly. “And he’s only kind about our marriage 
because he know's he can’t stop it. But he and Sara 
and Stephen are making the best of a bad job. . . .” 

“Oh, what do you mean, Denis?” Her voice 
trembled. 

“I am only warning you that I’m not worthy of 
you,” said Denis, still looking fixedly in front of 
him so that he should not see her distressed face. 
“I shall disappoint you — perhaps make you un- 
happy.” 

Janet’s heart sank a little. She had never known 
him in this mood before. It frightened her. Did 
he want her to send him away? 

She choked back her tears. 

“Denis — Denis — don’t talk like this — I can’t bear 
it! . . .” 

He turned suddenly and put his arms round her 
and kissed her. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, very gently; 
“you’ve been an angel to me. And I love you. 
But that doesn’t mean that I shan’t make you very 
unhappy sometimes.” 

Janet released herself. “I’d rather be unhappy 
with you than happy without you. And it isn’t as 
if I didn’t know the meaning of suffering — ^you’ve 


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367 

seen that for yourself, haven’t you? You’ve taken 
me away from all that — the misery — the suffer- 
ing .. . you opened the door of the cage! You 
set me free, Denis! I shall bless you for that till 
the last hour of my life. Whatever you do — what- 
ever you say— to hurt me, I shall remember that 
and . . . forgive you. . . 

She was standing up in front of him, and it seemed 
to him that there was something both noble and pas- 
sionate in her attitude. She was almost violently 
alive, awakened from that long coma that had at- 
rophied all her powers, physical, mental and spir- 
itual. She was splendidly aware of her freedom, 
and she was ready to worship that hand that had 
opened the door of the cage, endured for twenty-six 
years. 

He came and stood beside her and gathered her 
closely to him. “My darling, darling Janet,” he 
said. 

But he was genuinely touched, and profoundly 
moved by her words. His love had called her al- 
most fiercely to life. She, the, poor prisoner, 
watched and sheltered and guarded till she was 
ready to pine away and die, had responded to the 
sound of his voice, to the touch, the words of love. 
And in return she gave him unquestioningly and 
with a prodigal generosity, the whole love of her 
life. Worthy or unworthy, she cared passionately 
for him. . . . 

And whatever happened, she would always love 
him, always remember that his had been the hand to 
open the cage-door and set her free, as surely no 
woman had ever been set free since that day more 
than seventy years ago when Robert Browning had 
gathered his delicate bride in his arms, and borne 
her away from the sofa in a darkened London room 
to the soft reviving airs of Italy. ... 

In the midst of an atmosphere of suspicion and 


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thinly-veiled distrust, Janet’s confidence in Denis 
had retained its crystal clearness unimpaired. He 
was grateful to her for that, grateful too that John 
with all his knowledge, had done nothing to try to 
diminish it. Yes, John had kept scrupulously aloof 
and silent. Yet a word from him and would not the 
house of cards have fallen about his and Janet’s 
ears? She was too good a woman to be able to 
regard indifferently those deep disfiguring stains of 
dishonor that should have made it impossible for 
any man or woman to trust him again. 

His touch soothed her. 

“You must never frighten me again like that, 
Denis. You made me feel as if you wanted me to 
ask you to go away. . . .” 

“Ah, my dear, it’s because I’m afraid of so many 
things !” 

Only he could not put her love to that supreme 
test. It would have been more fair, but looking at 
her now, he was incapable of doing it. He wasn’t 
going, with his own hands to deprive her of that love 
and confidence she bestowed upon him with such 
generous ardor. And in that moment of struggle 
with himself he realized that he loved her now as 
never before. It was impossible to run the risk of 
losing her. . . . 

Later he took her to the dressmaker’s where she 
was to meet Sara. Janet mutely detested the whole 
performance of buying clothes; indeed after the 
first novelty of possessing dainty raiment had worn 
off, she regarded it as an odious waste of time. 
But she submitted to Sara’s inexorable will in the 
matter, feeling that it would have been churlish to 
rebel under the circumstances. Sara was so deeply 
convinced of the vital importance of an adequate 
trousseau, that it would have hurt her feelings to 
question it. But that afternoon Janet felt even less 


AVERAGE CABINS 369 

inclined than usual for the distasteful task of “trying 
on.” 

At the door, Denis left her. 

“Tell Sara I don’t think I shall come back to tea,” 
he said. “I have one or two things to do. And 
you’ll probably be here for hours.” 

“Very well, Denis,” said Janet. 

Yet she felt a little disappointed and perhaps even 
a little anxious, as she saw him stride away down the 
lighted bustling street, his tall figure so soon vanish- 
ing amid the crowds of pedestrians who were stroll- 
ing along the narrow Bond Street pavements that 
winter afternoon. 

She remembered then that they had made no 
plans for meeting on the morrow. This little omis- 
sion, combined with the new strangeness of manner 
Denis had displayed that day, gave Janet a saddened 
depressed feeling that was almost like a definite 
presentiment of coming evil. . . . 


CHAPTER XXXV 

T he evening was warm for the end of January. 

A mild southerly wind was blowing with a 
dampness in it that suggested rain. If he had been 
in Rome on such a night, Denis would have mur- 
mured “sirocco” and felt the climate to be ener- 
vating. But surely one could not feel the sirocco 
blowing so far north as London. 

He walked back to his lodgings, all down busy 
Oxford Street and past the marble arch, disdaining 
both omnibus and Tube that would have taken him 
so close to his abode. He faced the immense length 
of the Bayswater Road, and on his left the trees in 


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the Park stood up black and skeleton-like in their 
winter nakedness, their branches rocking in the wind. 
Even now it was not quite dark, and a misty yellow 
radiance showed in the West. The twilight was 
colored a cold ashen blue — a dusky hue that flowed 
over everything as if it had been poured from a 
gigantic cup. 

Now he was nearing Notting Hill Gate, and 
houses and shops rose on either side of him. The 
road between him and the opposite pavement was 
thronged with vehicles of every description. Mo- 
tor-lorries competed with motor-buses as to which 
should take up most room, travel fastest, and pro- 
duce the greatest amount of noise and odor. Luxu- 
rious private automobiles slipped past with a swift 
almost aristocratic ease, as if with secret contempt 
for the more vulgar taxi. There were not a great 
many horses to be seen, and the few that dragged 
broughams or carts looked overworked, listless, 
and tired. At a street corner a boy was hawking 
newspapers. At another a woman sat before a 
basket of oranges. A flower stall struck a note of 
almost wistful color in those sordid surroundings. 
Denis quickened his steps and began to descend the 
long steep wide hill that goes down to Shepherd’s 
Bush. The air that touched his face was fresher; 
it seemed to come straight from country fields, to 
bring a whisper of dew and greening grass, of 
brown woods and pale gleaming rivers stealing 
cautiously along between twin rows of willow trees, 
with stars watching overhead. The English land- 
scape — the familiar, intimate English fields. . . . 
He could remember how in the trenches during the 
War just a little green hill in Somersetshire had 
always risen up before his mind, teasing him with 
a desire to walk along its summit once more — that 
summit crowned with woods gay in their spring 
foliage, with a wild cherry-tree standing among 


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371 


the rest like a gay little bride. It was always the 
same hill, the same woods, and the time of year 
was always spring. He wondered to-night why he 
had never returned thither when he was free. But 
once out of the trenches it had ceased to haunt him, 
just as those lines from Richard II had ceased to 
haunt him : 

This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land. . . . 

He turned to the right, crossed a square presided 
over by a church with a tall spire and pressed 
through a network of little gray streets. He came to 
a church half hidden there in the heart of this un- 
lovely little neighborhood. He had intended to 
go straight back to his lodgings that night, and look 
through some papers, yet it was no sudden impulse 
that constrained him to enter the church. The door 
stood open, a woman with a shawl over her head 
passed him and went in. Almost mechanically he 
followed her. 

It was a small church, built for the poor in a poor 
neighborhood. Its interior decoration was of the 
simplest kind. There were the usual statues of 
Our Lady, the Sacred Heart, St. Joseph, and St. 
Anthony. He saw the woman drop a penny into 
the box for St. Anthony’s bread for the poor. 
She crossed herself and said a prayer. Denis 
watched her for a second, thought involuntarily of 
the widow’s mite, and then went up to one of the 
front benches. He knelt down and hid his face in 
his hands. 

At first he did not pray, did not even try to con- 
centrate his mind upon the Living Presence within 
the Tabernacle. It seemed to him that he had come 
to ask for counsel rather than to pray. Two emo- 
tions had brought him hither that evening. One 
was his gratitude to John Ponsford; the other was 
the feeling that Janet’s conversion had set her fur- 


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ther from him instead of bringing them nearer 
together. If she ever learnt of that past sin of 
his, she would have to regard it with Catholic eyes. 
She would not be able to make excuses for him in 
his irremediable dishonor. And though John was 
silent, could he himself keep silence? He knew in 
his heart, just as surely as if he had been told, that 
John was waiting, hoping, -praying for him to speak. 
And he knew, too, that despite all Sara’s kindness 
there lay hidden within her a deep instinctive dis- 
trust of him. He wondered sometimes, how it was 
he possessed this exact knowledge. Perhaps his own 
inward sense of guilt was like a mirror in which 
he saw reflected the invisible effect that guilt was 
able to produce upon the minds of others. It was 
like something tangible . . . that made people 
draw a little away from him. Only Janet had never 
been disturbed by it. There had been no least 
drawing away on her part. Her love was too 
great, and even now it seemed to enfold him with 
promise of forgiveness. 

Only he dared not put it to the test. . . . 

He thought almost inconsequently then of Pio 
Ascarelli’s dark, sombre, passionate face when he 
had learned the truth — or as much of that truth as 
Angus Ferringham had been in a position to reveal. 
It had been a terrible thing to see a human face 
change suddenly from friendly kindness and affec- 
tion to a fierce revengeful hostility. If Janet’s face 
were no longer turned to him with its expression of 
candid and innocent love and confidence, he felt he 
could not bear it. He loved her, and only to-day 
had he learned how completely that love now pos- 
sessed his heart. 

There are moments in most lives when the soul 
has a sense of being stripped and naked, cruelly 
aware of its stains, its dark scars of past wounds. 
In the physical world the disease of leprosy is per- 


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373 


haps the only bodily malady that can offer any sim- 
ilitude to the soul that is stained with what theolo- 
gians call mortal sin — that deliberate, conscious, 
and wilful rebellion against the mandates of Al- 
mighty God. But it is a moment that, but for the 
sustaining conviction of Divine Love and obtainable 
pardon, might well produce despair within that soul. 

Such a moment had come to Denis. He had en- 
tered the church almost carelessly, and now he 
seemed to be held there against his will, and con- 
strained to make that deep inward examination that 
tortured as well as humbled him. He felt he could 
never forget that hour — the quiet stillness that 
prevailed within the building, the almost inaudible 
stir of far distant traffic, the flickering lights, the 
cold shadows . . . and Something within the Tab- 
ernacle that seemed to be speaking to him. . . . 

He remembered how hard it had been for him 
to meet John’s eyes that day. For John knew, and 
he had been scrupulously careful never to betray that 
knowledge by word or deed, never to show Denis 
himself that he retained the slightest recollection of 
what had passed between them as priest and penitent 
on that night at Wanswater. Nothing in all the 
Catholic Church has been more strictly guarded 
than the confessional. Its secrets have ever been 
inviolable. Denis was aware of the priest’s inabil- 
ity ever to make a reference to anything therein re- 
vealed even to the penitent himself. The sin re- 
pented, confessed and absolved is blotted out. 

Yet John, fully aware of all that had stained and 
darkened Denis Lorimer’s past, had alone of all 
the Ponsfords made no effort to step in and pre- 
vent his marriage with Janet. For John’s hands 
were tied, although he loved Janet much more than 
the others did. He tenderly loved her, had been 
prepared to make sacrifices for her sake. He must 
have looked on with a strange anguish, longing to 


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stretch out his hand and . save her from marrying 
Denis, yet unable to do so. . . . 

But Denis had known instinctively how greatly 
John had been opposed to the marriage, how earnest 
must have been his desire to save his sister from 
such a fate. 

And his influence over Janet was great. He was 
perhaps the only person in the world who could 
have induced her to relinquish the thought of mar- 
rying Denis. He could have taken her away from 
Wanswater; he could have given her a home, close 
to his own. He had even made plans to accom- 
plish this, setting aside his own desire to enter the 
Benedictine Order. 

As Denis knelt there, a hot tear fell from his eyes 
and splashed down upon his hands, that were raised 
to hide his face. He looked up and found that his 
tears were blinding him. All the lights in the little 
church were blurred and seemed to assume fantas- 
tic forms seen through that fiery liquid mist. 

The church was full of the dusk of the winter’s 
evening; it was deserted now by all except himself. 
He had the strong sense of being alone with the 
Divine Presence upon the Altar, Whose nearness 
had become almost tangible. And in the presence 
of that transcendent perfection he felt that his own 
stripped and naked soul had become a visible thing, 
smirched, unsightly, sinister. . . . 

He was hardly conscious of praying, yet once or 
twice the words of some simple remembered prayer 
rose to his lips and he muttered them inaudibly. 
Down the long yet swift years he seemed now to 
watch himself making a pilgrimage, protracted, 
desultory — a pilgrimage that was to take him at 
last to Wanswater and to the brink of a new life 
that offered him certain things he had never yet pos- 
sessed. Wanswater and Janet ... To know the 
Universe itself as a road^ as many roads^ as roads 


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375 


for traveling souls, . . .The words of the American 
poet came back to him, and it seemed to him that 
on that day when he first arrived at Wanswater, he 
had reached that piece of road whereon he was des- 
tined to travel for a space, side by side and hand in 
hand, with Janet Ponsford. Their two traveling 
souls had met, and now it appeared to him almost 
fantastically that they were destined also to free 
each other. He was to open the door of her cage, 
and she, with her tender winning love, was to take 
him for ever away from the sordid darkness of his 
past life. He knew that his own love for Janet had 
an enduring quality. Only . . . something stood 
between them. 

He prayed again, and this time for strength to lay 
aside for ever that dark burden. He must go to 
John and place himself in his hands by telling the 
whole story to him, frankly and openly. Not under 
the seal .of the confessional, but in such manner that 
he should be free to disclose it to Janet — to all the 
world. . . . 

Denis had no idea of the passing of time. It 
must be getting late, he knew, and many hours had 
passed since he had last tasted food, his body was 
growing a little weak under the strain. In his 
•searching self-examination to-night there was noth- 
ing of histrionic pose — he had laid that aside like 
some disgraceful and shameful motley. He suf- 
fered with that deep suffering of the soul that no 
mortal palliatives can touch. The agony seenied 
sometimes to become almost a physical one, tearing 
at and rending his heart. His love for Janet was 
after all one of the few genuine emotions of his life. 
The thought of possible separation from her became 
the more bitter as this consciousness assumed a defi- 
nite shape. 

There was only one course, if he had but the 
courage to follow it, and that was to go to John, 


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376 

this very night. To place himself utterly in his 
hands. To give him the terrible power to separate 
him from Janet. ... 

Denis fought against this counsel of perfection. 
He could not be such a fool as to place himself delib- 
erately in the hands of another man, to make or 
mar his own destiny. He would run no risk of losing 
Janet. After their marriage he would perhaps tell 
her . . . And then he thought of the quality of her 
love, its fragrance, its candor, its touch of adoration 
and hero-worship — things he had never before sa- 
vored. She loved not the man he was, but the man 
she earnestly believed him to be. But if she knew 
the whole truth, her love would never again hold 
just that same delicate quality. It would be 
changed, because he himself would be changed in 
her eyes. There would be pity and sorrow in it, 
but never that hero-worship, that blind confidence, 
which had flattered and touched him. She could 
never look up to him again when once she knew of 
his tragic failure, his base ingratitude, his sin against 
the old man who had shown him nothing but a fath- 
er’s kindness. But for Lord Farewether’s mag- 
nanimity he would have suffered as heavy a punish- 
ment as the law can inflict for such a crime as his. 
No — Janet could never forgive that past dishonor. 
She would turn from him in horror. Her disil- 
lusionment would be complete. The very slight- 
ness of her own personal experience of life would 
militate against him. She had so little knowledge 
of temptation. She would have pity and sorrow for 
him, but not forgiveness. And he wondered if a 
change would come over her face as she listened, 
the swift change from love to hatred that he had 
seen on Pio Ascarelli’s face after he had learned the 
truth. . . . 

A sob shook him. The struggle was becoming a 
little weaker. He was unable to resist the hard 


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counsels he had received. Janet as a Catholic would 
not ask less of him.; she would ask more. He could 
not marry her with this terrible thing hidden between 
them. She as his future wife, had a right to know. 

He rose at last, genuflecting as he passed before 
the Tabernacle, and making a profound inclination 
of his head. As he went out, he dipped his finger 
Into the stoup of holy water and crossed himself. 
These little actions seemed to him the symbol of 
his determination to obey those counsels of perfec- 
tion that had come to him that night In the little 
church. It had been a long struggle — a fierce com- 
bat — and now that it was over he was both spirit- 
ually and physically exhausted. His body felt weak 
and very light, he seemed hardly to feel the pave- 
ment beneath his feet. Even the wish to struggle 
had left him now, and he realized that he was cruelly 
spent. 

He walked up the hill In the windy darkness, heed- 
less of the busy traffic, of the people who jostled 
against him as he passed. He was going to see 
John now — this very night. He would not wait 
for the calmer, more prudent counsels of the morn- 
ing. He must obey the fierce and Impetuous Im- 
pulse which was driving him forward, constraining 
him to seek out John Ponsford and throw himself 
upon his mercy. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

F ather JOHN was alone In his sitting-room. 

It was a small square room, furnished plainly 
and shabbily like the poorer kind of London lodg- 
ings. Its one window looked out upon a tiny black- 
ened oblong strip of earth, adorned with a couple of 


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378 

laurel bushes, that was dignified by the name of gar- 
den. A solitary plane-tree — hardiest of all London 
trees — lifted black boughs to the night sky. The 
curtains were pulled back, the blind drawn up, 
the window was slightly opened; the darkness of the 
night, as well as its soft airs, seemed to flow into 
the room. 

John had arranged his books neatly on some 
shelves that hung on the wall. They were all with- 
out exception theological and spiritual books. Some 
of them were in Latin. On the table beside him lay 
an unopened evening paper, and a copy of a Cath- 
olic journal. 

He was sitting at the table writing. The light 
of a small lamp fell on the sheet of paper. He 
was bending over it, and the lamplight brought out 
all the strong beautiful lines of his face. It was 
not a hard face, yet it gave one the impression of a 
man who could be very hard with himself, and per- 
haps correspondingly lenient with others. The firm 
well-cut lips were closed. It was a priestly face 
with still some hint of lingering boyishness in it. 

There was a light knock at the door, and Denis 
Lorimer came into the room. It was with a kind 
of swift subconscious perception that John realized 
immediately there was something definite, purpose- 
ful, and significant in this unexpected visit from the 
man who had of late so persistently avoided him. 

Had Denis come to tell him that he wished to 
break off his engagement to Janet? After his own 
conversation with Sara that day it would scarcely 
have astonished him. He believed, in common with 
the rest of the family, that Denis’s sole motive for 
wishing to marry Janet was his desire to possess 
himself of her money. John had never believed 
that Denis had any real love for Janet. It had al- 
ways seemed to him improbable that a man still suf- 
fering — as he himself acknowledged — from the 


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379 

effects of a hopeless and disastrous love-affair should 
be able to experience any affection for another wo- 
man. He had believed that Denis’s love for the 
beautiful Italian girl had been a genuine passion, 
and he had known, too, with what rage of humil- 
iation he had seen all his relations with the Ascarelli 
family arbitrarily severed. He had been wounded 
most sorely both in mind and body, and was it pos- 
sible that scarcely six months later he had been able 
to fall in love with another woman — a woman older 
than himself, delicate, prematurely-aged, and per- 
haps even unattractive? For John, although he 
tenderly loved his sister, knew that she was utterly 
deficient in those gifts of charm and radiant beauty 
that had characterized Donna Camilla Ascarelli, 
who was known as one of the most beautiful girls in 
Rome. Janet must have presented an almost pain- 
ful contrast to Donna Camilla. . . . 

“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you. Father. 
But I’ve come to see you on very special busi- 
ness.” 

Father? It was very seldom that Denis ad- 
dressed his friend by the appellation. It meant per- 
haps that it was as a priest he was now seeking him. 
John looked at Denis and became aware of the sub- 
tle change that had come over him. Leaning back 
and folding his arms he waited for him to 
speak. . . . 

He thought that Denis had the look of a man 
who had been engaged in a severe and prolonged 
physical conflict, during which he had been beaten 
to his knees, and known the anguish that such humil- 
iation may mean to the proud and rebellious spirit. 
Fought on the spiritual plane, such a conflict may 
symbolize that conquest of self from which the soul 
emerges regenerated, purified, as if by a fierce and 
purging fire. 

“When I was ill at Wanswater,” said Denis at last, 


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380 

and looking wistfully into John’s face, “I made a 
confession to you.” 

John nodded his head. 

“I told you then what I had never told any one. 
I had taken the risk of being killed in the War with- 
out confessing that particular sin. But you thought 
I was dying that ni^t. . . 

“Yes.” 

“And I felt like dying. I didn’t think I should 
get well. There was no other priest — I had to 
make my confession to you.” 

“Yes,” said John, again. 

That scene, so dramatic in its intensity, seemed 
to be present with him now. 

“It didn’t occur to you that I was wandering in 
my mind?” 

“I’m quite sure you were not.” 

“You’ve been wonderful, Father.” 

There was a delicate stiffening of John’s features. 
Praise was always distasteful to him, and praise 
from Denis, who knew that his silence had been ob- 
ligatory, almost repelled him. 

“I’ve come to see that it wasn’t right to leave 
you in such a position. Janet ought to know. 
It isn’t fair to you that you shouldn’t be able to 
speak — to tell her . . . That’s why I’ve come to tell 
you the whole story quite openly ... to put my- 
self in your hands. . . .” 

John stared at him. 

“Do you wish to break off your engagement to 
Janet?” he asked. 

It flashed into his mlnd^ that Denis had chosen 
this drastic means of freeing himself from a sit- 
uation he was beginning to find intolerable. Per- 
haps Denis became sensitively aware of this, for he 
said quickly : 

“No — I love her very much, as I think you know. 


AVERAGE CABINS 381 

rd rather she knew nothing . . . but It’s for you 
to choose. . . 

He sat down near the table and leaned his chin 
on his hands. By the light of the lamp, John per- 
ceived that his face wore a look of livid, almost 
ghostly pallor. 

“I love her very much,” he said. “I know what 
you’ve all been thinking — that it was her money. 
But It wasn’t that ... I love her. And I’m not 
worthy of her. . . .” 

John did not speak. 

“If she hadn’t become a Catholic,” he went on, 
In that curiously mechanical almost “dead” voice, “I 
might never have seen things so clearly. I thought 
of her — as she is now . . . perfected . . . and of 
all that she would naturally expect me to be. I 
saw all I had to do before I could even begin to live 
a good Catholic life again. That’s what made me 
come to you to-night. . . . I’ve fought it all out 
In church since I left her. It wasn’t easy. ...” 
He looked pitifully at John, but there was no weak 
whining for mercy, nothing theatrical or jarring that 
made his sincerity doubtful. . . . 

“I’d better begin at the beginning,” he continued, 
after a little pause in which John remained silent. 
“I was agent, as you know, to Lord Farewether for 
a year or two before the war. He took me in spite 
of my inexperience, because he had known my 
mother. He had complete confidence in me, and 
large sums of money passed through my hands. I 
began with borrowing a few pounds here and there, 
meaning of course to pay it back. ... I expected 
money from an uncle. I falsified the accounts, 
and I’d taken some thousands, when my uncle 
died and didn’t leave me a penny. You know 
what Farewether was — the most devout Catholic in 
England. The light wasn’t extinguished in their 


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382 

chapel all through the persecutions during the Re- 
formation and under Elizabeth. He was more 
proud of that than of his old name — his place in the 
world. Mass had been said there regularly since it 
was built in the twelfth century. I’d counted on 
him, you see — if he ever did find out. And I didn’t 
count in vain. He accidentally discovered I hadn’t 
paid a certain sum into the Bank — it wasn’t often 
he looked into things. The War had just broken 
out and he hushed it up — he let me go. I shall 
never forget it. He’d known my mother before 
her marriage — he knew she wasn’t happy with my 
father, and before her death she had begged him 
to help me if he could. ‘You must go away, Denis,’ 
he said; ‘I’m not going to prosecute you, for your 
mother’s sake — I shouldn’t like her son to be sent to 
penal servitude. You must promise me to enlist — 
to serve your country well in her hour of need. 
No — don’t thank me, but try to keep straight in 
future.’ I think he was more upset than I was. He 
died a few months later, and I believe he destroyed 
all evidence of my guilt. Angus Ferringham knows 
something — ^but not the whole truth. ...” 

John sat silent, weighing each word carefully. 
He had prayed passionately for Denis, prayed that 
he might not marry Janet with this dreadful secret 
between them. The woman who was to be his wife 
had a right to know what manner of man she was 
marrying. And now he saw that his prayers had 
been in a sense miraculously answered. This 
penitent soul had come to him, torn with a pas- 
sionate sense of guilt, and had placed its very des- 
tiny in his hands with scarcely a plea for mercy. 

For a moment the sense of responsibility almost 
unnerved him. He felt that it was perhaps in his 
power now to separate Denis and Janet. But then 
what would be the future of this man, thus aban- 
doned and flung once more into the whirlpool of 


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383 

life, without any one to help him? John realized, 
dismayed, that he was thinking less of Janet then 
than of Denis. Had not Janet herself told him 
that day that she could bear the loss of Denis more 
easily now— in that first fervor of conversion that 
brings with it such a thirst for sacrifice, such an eager 
desire of submission to the Will of God? 

Yes, Denis would suffer in that separation more 
than Janet. He might even sense again with fresh 
revolt and mutiny, the humiliation and defeat as of 
one betrayed. 

There was nothing in his reckless revelations to 
stand in the way of a marriage that should be law- 
ful in the eyes of the Church. Sins, so humbly con- 
fessed, so bitterly repented, could be absolved in 
the Sacrament of Penance, surely the most merciful 
and consoling of Divine gifts and appointments. 
The Sacrament that is in itself a channel of the most 
overwhelming grace . . . poured out in full and 
generous and unstinted measure. . . . 

It was substantially the same story that Denis had 
told him at Wanswater, though on that occasion he 
had dwelt more upon his own sin than upon the fine 
magnanimity of Lord Farewether. John could 
picture that little dramatic scene of parting, for he 
had known Lord Farewether with some intimacy at 
the time of his own conversion and abjuration. 
This man had long been regarded as an elderly and 
eccentric recluse, almost fanatical in his devotion 
to the Catholic Church. He had held more than 
one Papal honor, and was said to have lived fru- 
gally, in order that he might give away three 
fourths of his income in secret alms. Perhaps he 
had by now reaped the reward of his generous par- 
don of that wrong inflicted by the very hand he had 
tried to succor. 

“I was demobilized after the Armistice and re- 
ceived a gratuity. I went to Monte Carlo with 


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384 

another man — ^we had the most unprecedented luck.” 
Denis went on with his recital as if determined 
not to spare himself in any way. “I lived in Rome 
for months on the money I had won. People 
thought me a rich man — Pio Ascarelli, whom I’d 
known on the Julian front, invited me to his house. 
Yqu know the rest — ^but I never told you that I 
showed them a photograph of Sledwick and allowed 
them to believe it was my own place and that I’d let 
it. Then Angus Ferringham — Farcwether’s nephew 
— came and he gave the show away. I never knew 
him at Sledwick — but I think he must have found 
out something. My going away so suddenly would 
have looked suspicious at any other time, but every 
one was busy chucking their jobs in those first days 
of August. Well, Pio Ascarelli was furious when 
he found out I was poor and that Sledwick 
wasn’t mine. And then I had stayed out late with 
his sister and Fd asked her to marry me. He made 
me fight a duel with him, though I heard Angus urg- 
ing him to horsewhip me instead.” Denis glanced 
significantly, at his left arm. “He had his revenge, 
hadn’t he? I shall never use my arm again. I’ve 
longed to tell Janet how it was done — she thinks 
perhaps it was wounded in some heroic feat. Oh, 
I have learned to hate the name of Ascarelli ! . . . 
To think of all those weeks in the hospital, and Ca- 
milla never once troubled to ask after me — or to find 
out if I were dead or alive.” He broke off abruptly. 
Not a year divided him from that phase of peculiar 
suffering, and it still had power to shame him by the 
very remembrance of its defeat and humiliation. 
He turned, and his eyes sought John’s. “What are 
you going to tell me to do. Father?” 

John put out his hand and touched Denis lightly. 

“I am going to thank you first of all,” he said, 
“for your courage in coming. I know it wasn’t easy. 
You’ve done the right thing, Denis, but I ... I 


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385 

can’t take advantage of your generosity. I can only 
advise you ...” 

“Yes?” said Denis almost eagerly. 

“My advice is for you to go and see Janet, and 
tell her everything quite frankly. She has a right 
to know. It would be terrible for her if she found 
out anything after she was married to you.” 

“Janet will never forgive me,” Denis said, in a 
tone devoid of hope; “perhaps there may have been 
some chance before, but now she’s a Catholic, she 
can’t possibly. . . .” 

“Don’t you think the very fact of her being a 
Catholic will make her more ready to forgive you?” 
said John gently. 

Denis stared at him. 

“More ready?” he repeated. 

“I mean — she understands now the nature of 
sacramental absolution.” 

There was a long silence. Denis dared not hope, 
and yet those words of John’s had taken that dead 
weight of despair from his heart. 

“And then — she loves you,” said John. 

“And you — you’ll do nothing to prevent our mar- 
riage?” said Denis. 

“Nothing at all,” replied John. 

“But you must hate to see your sister . . . mar- 
rying a man like myself. I might have been in 
prison at this moment. They’d have given me seven 
years.” His voice broke with a sound that was like 
a sob. 

John touched him lightly on the shoulder. 

“You’re tired, my dear Denis. When did you 
last have anything to eat?” 

“I ... I forget . . . breakfast I think.” 

John rang the bell and his landlady appeared. 

“Supper, please,” he said, “and for two.” 

It was a frugal meal, but Denis ate ravenously. 
John gave him some wine. He did not encourage 


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him to talk, for he had a dreadful fear that even now 
he might break down. That spiritual wrestling had 
exhausted his body just as a protracted physical 
struggle might have done. 

When the meal was over J^hn said : 

“I’m going to take you back to your place in a 
taxi. And then you must go to bed.” His voice 
was slightly authoritative, but Denis was only too 
thankful to obey. He was very tired, so tired that 
he could have cried like a child. But he had an idea 
that would have upset John very much indeed. 

Thev drove in silence up Campden Hill to Not- 
ting Hill Gate, and then down the long and busy 
thoroughfare of Holland Park Avenue. A slight 
rain had fallen, giving freshness to the air. The 
somber brown and purple of the London night 
was pricked at regular intervals by the great moon- 
light-colored globes of electric light, raised high 
on their immense posts that were like twin rows of 
watchful and luminous sentinels. 

The taxi drew up before Denis’s door. 

“I hope you’re pretty comfortable here,” said 
John, a little anxiously. He had always considered 
it so wise of Denis not to stay in Green Street with 
the Stephen Ponsfords. 

“Oh, well, it’s not much of a room, but it’s as 
good as one can expect for the money.” Denis’s 
voice was more normal. The swift drive had 
braced his nerves. “Shall I tell her to-morrow?” 
he asked, just as John was preparing to leave him. 

“Well, I shouldn’t delay if I were you. But see 
how you feel in the morning.” 

“Perhaps vou could go around early and see her, 
and . . . prepare her a little,” suggested Denis 
hesitatingly. 

“Very well — I’ll say that you’re coming and that 
you’ve something important to tell her.” 

“Yes, yes, that would be best.” 


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387 

John’s hand closed over Denis’s in a warm and 
reassuring grasp. Then he entered the taxi once 
more and was borne swiftly out of sight. Denis 
stood for a moment longer on the door-step, then 
he turned and went into the house. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

PRATHER JOHN appeared early in Green Street 
on the following morning. He found Stephen 
and his wife and daughter at breakfast. There 
were entreaties from them all to join them, and 
Pamela put a plate in front of him. 

“Try some of this fish — it isn’t half bad,” she 
said. “I would have left more if I’d known you 
were coming.” 

But John would only accept a cup of coffee. 

“Your coffee’s delicious,” he told Sara, tasting 
it. 

“Well, it ought to be,” smiled Sara, 

“That means there’s a row when it isn’t,” ex- 
plained Pamela, with a shake of her handsome black 
head. 

“I want to* see Janet. . . . What time does she 
come down?” 

“She won’t get up before half past ten. If you’re 
in a hurry you’d better go up and see her.” 

“I think I’ll go up then,” said John, finishing 
his coffee. 

He put down the emptied cup. Sara’s hand was 
on the coffee-pot. 

“Another cup?” 

“No, thanks.” 

“Any developments?” inquired Sara. She was 
intrigued by his early visit. “No hitch, I hope?” 


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“Hitch?” said Stephen looking up. “Isn’t the 
marriage going to take place after all?” 

“Of course it is,” struck in Pamela; “Aunt 
Janet’s crazy about him. And he — I think he’s 
rather crazy about her. I hope I shan’t ever fall in 
love with dear old Skipton!” she added meditatively. 

Stephen looked up sharply from the Times, He 
found the conversation slightly disturbing, and it 
was difficult to give his whole attention to the news- 
paper. Yet things were beginning to look up in 
the City. If only there weren’t this perpetual 
menace of a coal-strike. . . . 

Pamela’s remark had, however, effectually brought 
him back to earth from these lofty financial soar- 
ings. 

“Why Skipton?” he inquired. 

“Because I shall probably marry him in about 
two years’ time,” replied Pamela coolly. 

“Marry him indeed! You shall do nothing of 
the kind! A baby like you to be talking about 
marriage. . . . Why, you’re hardly out of the nur- 
sery! Never heard such nonsense in my life. I 
shall send you to school if I hear any more of it.” 

Stephen’s voice was stern. But his severity did 
not produce any other effect upon Pamela than to 
evoke a sudden peal of silvery laughter. 

“Dear old thing — ^you get more early-Victorian 
every day. And what on earth’s the matter with 
Skipton, Daddy? You’ve often said yourself what 
a charming boy he is. I don’t like his mother much, 
but I shan’t have to live with her. He’ll have lots 
of money, and then we’re such tremendous pals.” 

“Nothing’s wrong with Skipton except that you’re 
far too young to think of these things, and he’s no 
right to put such ideas into your head. Don’t let 
me hear any more nonsense of the kind.” 

“He didn’t put any ideas into my head,” said 
Pamela, munching her toast and marmalade with 


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389 

a perfectly undisturbed air. “I’d already wondered 
several times if he was going to propose to 
me. . . 

“Pamela will probably change her mind twenty 
times before she’s eighteen, and so will Skipton,” 
said Sara calmly. She fully intended to encour- 
age the Skipton alliance. It was in every way suit- 
able. 

Finding the conversation had assumed such an 
intimate family character John rose from his seat 
and said, “I think I’d better be going up.” 

He climbed the three flights of stairs that led 
up to Janet’s room. She called “Come in,” in re- 
sponse to his knock, and he found her lying on the 
sofa with the breakfast-table drawn up close to 
her. 

“Isn’t Sara making me indolent and luxurious?” 
she said. 

“You want lots of rest — ^you’ve had a pretty 
strenuous time lately,” said John, bending down and 
kissing her. In that blue wrapper of hers with her 
chestnut-colored hair all loose about her face, he 
thought she looked wonderfully pretty. “One thing, 
it doesn’t seem to have hurt you much.” 

“No — I haven’t fainted for ages. Denis thinks 
I shall be better, now I’m away from Wanswater, 
and that I shan’t faint so often — perhaps not even 
at all — in the future. But I’m not happy about 
Mamma, John. You must try to make peace — I 
feel sometimes as if I’d behaved badly. . . .” 

“I don’t think you need feel that,” said John 
kindly. 

“I wish she would come to the wedding.” 

“So do I. But it’s too long a journey for her 
in this winter weather.” 

“You’ve come round very early, Johnny. Was 
it specially to see me?” 

“Yes,” he answered gravely. “I had a long talk 


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with Denis last night. He told me to say he’d 
be round this morning.” 

“A long talk?” There was a look of fear, of 
anxiety in her face. “Was it about me?” 

“About you — and himself. . . . He is worried 
about something, Jane dear. . . .” 

“Does he want me to break off our engagement?” 
she asked sharply, remembering their conversation 
of yesterday. “Is it — that he can^t marry me?” 
she asked pitifully. 

“No, no; it isn’t that. You ought not to break 
off an engagement without a strong, a vital rea- 
son. . . .” 

“And is there such a reason?” 

Still that sharp note of fear in her voice. 

“Denis is afraid you may think there is. That’s 
why he’s coming to see you this morning. Jane — 
he has something very particular to say to you . . . 
But I want you to remember . . .” 

He paused, looking wistfully at her. 

“Yes — ^yes, John?” with a touch of impatience. 

“That it will have cost him a great deal to come 
— 'that his fear of losing you is at least as great as 
your own fear that something may come between 
you. So I ask you not to do anything rash — but 
to pray ... to ask advice ... to make quite sure 
that you’re acting wisely . . .” 

She said suddenly: “I don’t understand.” 

“No, I’m leaving Denis to tell you the principal 
part. But when he has told you and you know 
everything, you’ll have to make a decision. And 
you may want help then.” 

She looked at him sadly. 

“Do you want me to break off my engagement, 
Johnny? Denis thinks you do.” 

“Perhaps he doesn’t think so now, after our 
talk last night. I daren’t advise you, but it seems 


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391 


to me that you can help each other. There’s so 
much in Denis that’s lovable.” 

He was pleading Denis’s cause, almost against 
his will. Janet gazed at him in wide-eyed astonish- 
ment. 

“Yes, yes,” she assented eagerly. 

“Remember that, won’t you? And that I’m not 
against it, although I’m not without fear and anxiety 
and many misgivings . . . Good-bye, my dearest 
Jane.” 

He stooped down to kiss her, and she clung to 
him a little. To his surprise he found that there 
were tears upon her face. 

“You mustn’t cry — you must be strong and brave, 
Janet. You’ve turned your back on the old quiet 
sheltered life, and the world isn’t always smooth 
and easy.” 

“I know ... I know . . . perhaps I shall feel 
better when Denis has been — when I know just what 
it is. I’m in suspense . . . Johnny, what can it be? 
Is it going to . . . hurt me?” 

“Yes, it will hurt you,” he said. “You’ll want 
courage. But it need not necessarily part you from 
Denis, that’s for you to decide.” 

“I shall never part from him of my own will. 
He’s all my world.” She spoke with a certain pas- 
sion. John thought, not without irony, of Pamela’s 
words that morning. “Skipton will have lots of 
money, and besides we’re such tremendous palsl” 
But perhaps it was only exteriorly, in their speech, 
that the new generation differed so profoundly from 
the one which had immediately preceded it. Per- 
haps the difference lay also not so much in their 
feelings as in their manner of expressing them. But 
he thought that Pamela with her cheery matter-of- 
fact acceptance of life as it was with its rough 
and its smooth, was destined to be the happier of the 


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two women. If in the future she married Skipton, 
he would probably always remain a “tremendous 
paL” 

John had hardly left the house when Pamela, ob- 
serving his departure, came into her aunt’s room. 
She brought with her a couple of illustrated morn- 
ing papers. 

“Well, old thing,” she said affectionately, “is 
there anything up between you and Denis? Has 
Uncle John been grousing? You look a bit in the 
dumps.” 

Pamela sat down near Janet’s sofa, shook back 
her heavy strong bobbed mane, and began to play 
with her aunt’s rings. 

“I say, old thing, you aren’t going to chuck Denis, 
are you?” 

“Why? . . . Has any one been saying anything?” 
Janet was painfully aware of how freely Sara dis- 
cussed everything in her young daughter’s presence. 
What did Pamela know? 

“No, but it’s all so queer. Like a storm in the 
atmosphere before it bursts. Uncle John turning 
up like that at cock-crow, and wanting to see you. 
And now — you’ve been crying, haven’t you?” 

“Only — a little,” confessed Janet. 

“It’s a silly business, crying is, anyhow,” pro- 
nounced Pamela, “and, besides it makes one look 
hideous. I’m seldom moved to tears myself, and it 
generally means I’m in a towering rage. Will you 
take my advice, Aunt Janet? I know I’m only a kid, 
but I’ve learned a lot about — things — one way and 
another. You just stick to Denis. He’s awfully 
keen about you, any one can see that. But you 
mustn’t expect too much of him. People always 
topple off their pedestals if they’re uncomfortably 
high. He’s been through pretty bad times — I’m 
certain of that. But if you chuck him, he’ll go 
through worse.” 


AVERAGE CABINS 


393 

“But Fm not going to ‘chuck him,’ as you call 
it,' Pamela,” said Janet. 

“Yes, but if you think him a saint and then cry 
because you find he isn’t, that’ll make him feel bad 
too. He’s just an ordinary sort of man,” con- 
tinued Pamela, “better looking than most, and he’s 
very intelligent, and then he’s got what the house- 
maids call ‘a way with him.’ But if you expect too 
much of him, you’ll be disappointed, and a man 
jolly soon gets tired of a woman who shows him 
that she’s disappointed in him. You’re not offended 
are you, old thing?” 

“No, Fm not offended,” said Janet, smiling a 
little at the youthful philosophy of her niece. “But 
it’s very difficult not to put people on pedestals when 
. . . when you care for them.” 

“Yes, that’s the worst of falling in love,” said 
Pamela; “I never mean to be such a fool as to do 
that, of course. We don^t these days, you know. 
But Fve just been telling Dad that I shall probably 
marry Skipton in two years’ time. He didn’t like 
the idea at all, and threatened to send me to school. 
I don’t quite see what good that would do, do you ? 
But I shall marry him, you’ll see. He proposed to 
me again in Paris — I can’t help thinking the old 
lady got wind of it and that’s why she wanted me 
to go.” 

Pamela laughed merrily. 

“And I don’t mean to cry, even if it doesn’t all 
pan out just as I want it to. If I can’t have a good 
time one way, I shall get it in another. Now I must 
leave you to dress. Denis is coming round early, 
I gathered. Mind you put on that new blue dress 
— ^you look perfectly sweet in it.” 

She kissed her aunt with boisterous affection and 
then ran out of the room. 

Janet rose and began to dress. Pamela s words 
had cheered her, had brightened the aspect of things 


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in general, and even given her a certain courage to 
face this mysterious interview with Denis. 

She wondered what he had to tell her. Some- 
thing grave, or John would not have looked at once 
so solemn and so sorrowful . . . 

But Denis did love her — every one was convinced 
of that now. Even John . . . even Pamela. The 
thought comforted her. 

She brushed out her thick reddish-auburn hair. 
Between those heavy folds of it her face appeared 
small and narrow and white. But she looked 
younger, and, in spite of all things, happier than 
she had done on that night when she had gazed at 
herself in the mirror at Wanswater and wept over 
her lost youth. That night had formed a turning 
point in her life. She had known then without doubt 
that she loved Denis, although she scarcely hoped 
that he loved her or could ever love her. She had 
known him so little then, and yet she had loved 
him. But she loved him much more now, he was 
more her own. 

John had said the decision would rest in her 
hands. But whatever Denis had to tell her, how- 
ever horrible was this thing he felt compelled to 
reveal, it could make no difference to her. She 
would never say the word that was to part them. 
Even John didn’t seem to want her to do that. . . . 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 

J ANET was alone in the drawing-room an hour 
later, when Denis was announced. Sara and 
Pamela had gone out, as if determined that the inter- 
view — ^which they somehow guessed would be a 



AVERAGE CABINS 395 

critical if not a fateful one — should suffer no inter- 
ruption. 

While she was waiting for him in an agony of 
suspense that seemed to deepen and increase every 
moment^ Janet kept repeating to herself: “What- 
ever it is, I must forgive him ... I must forgive 
him. I mustn’t show him that I’m hurt.” 

She had so little experience of the world, that 
imagination failed to provide her with any possible 
hypothesis; she was unable to picture any delin- 
quency or incident in his past life that should have 
the tremendous power to separate her from Denis. 
But she felt too that it must be something of great 
gravity — terrible enough to make her decision by 
no means an easy one. 

When she thought of Denis, conjuring up a mental 
picture of him with his dear face, his shining dark 
eyes, the curve of his mouth when he smiled, she 
felt that whatever he had to tell her would only 
make her love him the more. 

He came quietly into the roopi. 

“Has John been here?” was his first greeting. 

“Yes. He came early.” 

“He told you that I was coming?” 

All this time Denis had been standing there, a 
few paces from her, not attempting to draw any 
nearer or to take her hand or kiss her. His face 
was as hard as if it had been hewn out of stone. 

“He said you were coming — that you had a com- 
munication to make. . . .” 

A strange cold wave of fear swept her from head 
to foot. She shivered, and clasped her hands 
tightly together. 

“You’ve no idea, I suppose, what it is?” he said, 
moving a step nearer. 

“No. But Denis — I’m frightened. . . . Must 
you tell me? I think I’d rather not know. . . .” 

At those words visible relief was expressed in 


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396 

his face. She could have said nothing that could 
have tempted him more powerfully. For now that 
he was face to face with her, sensing once more that 
intense confidence which had always formed so large 
a factor in her love for him, he felt appalled at the 
task before him. 

It would be like the deliberate ruin of something 
beautiful and hitherto untouched by despoiling hand. 
He could not do it. Not only because he loved her 
and feared to lose her, but because of the hurt to 
herself. She would be flung alone upon the waves 
of life, without support or anchor. 

He thrust the temptation from him; it had come 
to him in seductive guise, diminishing something of 
his high resolve. 

“If you are to marry me you have a right to 
know,” he said, and as he spoke he watched her 
face narrowly. 

She said pitifully : 

“I don’t want to know anything that could come 
between us — separate us. . . 

“I promised John that I’d tell you. I think you 
must listen to me, Janet. And afterwards if you 
wish — I will go away. I shan’t make a scene to 
worry and disturb you. . . .” 

The pale hands lying on her lap were clasped so 
tightly now that the outlines of the knuckles showed 
sharply through the skin. 

She thought: “I shall never perhaps see him 
again as I’m seeing him now. Perhaps he’ll never 
seem so perfect — so dear.” 

. . . She listened to that strange, fearful recital. 
It was like seeing an idol deliberately and shamefully 
defaced by its own hands. 

Denis did not attempt to approach her while he 
was telling her the story of his downfall at Sled- 
wick. That level grave voice of his concealed and 
palliated nothing of the truth. The horror of it 


AVERAGE CABINS 


C 

397 

was revealed complete, unsoftened by excuse. He 
would not play on her feeling for him; he would 
not sue for pity or mercy; he made no personal 
appeal to her love. But he watched her sensitive 
face, growing a little harder, a little more set and 
pale. Once he even wondered whether she would 
have the physical strength to endure the ordeal, or 
whether it would bring back a return of her malady, 
after these weeks of immunity, and strike her sense- 
less to the floor. He had an idea that she would 
welcome such unconsciousness, as the sufferer from 
physical agony welcomes a narcotic. . . . 

It was simply horrible — this telling Janet of his 
downfall and crime. Showing her his own hideous 
dishonor, the infamy too of his base ingratitude 
to the man who had loved him. And he saw with re- 
newed anguish the slowly-growing horror in her 
eyes. 

“You see, I thought you had better know you 
were going to marry a thief. I tried to keep you 
in ignorance — but it didn’t seem fair to John.” 

She spoke for the first time. 

“What had John got to do with it?” 

“John knew. ...” 

“Knew? And never said a word?” 

“He couldn’t speak. His hands were tied. I 
made a confession to him that night they thought 
I was dying at Wanswater. I told him the whole 
story in confession. He could not repeat it. And 
because he knew, he felt it would be dishonorable of 
him to take any steps to separate us ... on other 
grounds.” 

“It was splendid of John . . .” she said. 

“He is a priest. He would tell you that he 
had no choice.” 

His words rang in her head like the blows of 
a hammer falling upon something hard and resonant: 

“/ thought you had better know you were going to 


AFERAGE CABINS 


398 

marry a thief. . . Cruel words, shattering the 
very fabric of her life. 

“I tried to keep you in ignorance, but it was 
the thought of your being a Catholic — of all you 
would expect of me — I wanted you to see me as I 
am . . . not as a man you can love or trust any 
more.” 

She was silent. And her silence kept him coldly 
from her; he would not have dared to approach her 
now. They were strangers to each other. In that 
first dreadful moment of revelation it was impossible 
to readjust values. 

He felt like a criminal, at the mercy of this 
hard, unloving, disillusioned woman who had once 
loved him. 

At last she spoke. 

“You shouldn’t have told me ... I didn’t want 
to know. It was very cruel. If I have been living 
in a fool’s paradise, it was still a paradise.” There 
was a bitterness in her voice that seemed to proceed 
from her very heart. 

“John agreed with me that you ought to know. 
He said, too, that now you were a Catholic, you 
would understand about a sin being washed out by 
sacramental absolution. A sin confessed, repented 
of, and atoned for. . . . I’m very sorry, Janet. I 
feared you would never wish to see me again . . . 
I will go away. . . .” 

A mist came before his eyes, that were still fixed 
upon her. She sat there, very pale, very passive, as 
if some mighty cataclysm had shaken her life to its 
foundations and robbed her of all things dear and 
beloved, leaving her alone amid the ruins of deso- 
lation. 

“I am sorry,” he said again. “But it was my 
fault — I ought never to have asked a good woman 
like yourself to marry me.” His voice was quite 
controlled. 


AVERAGE CABINS 

She was saying to herself: “He must go — 1 
can’t possibly marry him.” It was to her as if he 
had fallen from some great height into the very 
dust. I love him, but I’m loving a thief. A com- 
mon thief who stole money — the money of a 
friend. . . She wondered how he could have 
ever seemed to her so heroic, so noble, so splendid. 
She had lived alone, aloof from the world, so 
long that she had become blind and undiscerning. 
Yet she had loved him . . . she had felt sometimes 
that she could have gladly gone through fire and 
water for him. Had she not said to John only this 
morning: is all my world*^f . . . 

A sudden trick of memory reconstructed before 
her eyes the scene down by the lake-side, when she 
had come upon Denis bending over the prone body 
of little Jimmy Nicholls, trying to bring back the 
life into it by means of artificial respiration. With 
that one arm of his he had worked away with a 
kind of passionate zeal, frustrated continually by 
his own helplessnes's. . . . He wasn’t all bad. He 
was capable of courageous action . . . and of un- 
utterable meanness. It was rather heroic, his corn- 
ing here like this to-day with that story on his 
lips, knowing what the consequences must surely be 
both to himself and to her. 

Her mind was imbued with an unusual and deadly 
activity. She pictured herself going home to Wans- 
water — perhaps to-tnorrow, for she felt that she 
couldn’t bear to stay in London and listen to the re- 
lieved commiserations that would surely be her por- 
tion — she saw herself entering the old house like 
a prodigal child who had indeed eaten of the husks. 
Telling her mother that she had been right to re- 
fuse her consent to such a marriage — so dreadfully, 
cruelly right. Asking her pardon for that brief 
rebellion of hers . . . begging to be taken back. 
To be allowed to sit in the library, to crochet the 



AVERAGE CABINS 


w 

400 

crossovers of gray wool for the old women in the 
village, thankful to have at least this refuge wherein 
to hide the shame of all that had happened to her. 
It would be a changed life now, because she was a 
Catholic, and that would make the little every-day 
duties easier because they would all be offered to 
Almighty God and done as perfectly as possible for 
His Sake Who consecrated them all. She would 
pray too that in time she might forget these past 
feverish and restless weeks of intense passionate 
happiness . . . Pray too that she might forget 
Denis, who loved her and whom she had loved . . . 
once . . . 

She saw herself standing by the window in her 
bedroom, looking out over the delicately-colored 
mountains, that were almost like jewels in their won- 
derful sapphire and amethyst and topaz-like hues; 
looking, too, at the broad pale surface of the lake 
lying under a blue and silver sky; at the emerald 
banks dipping to the water, and the deep dim woods 
spreading above them. Then the great black fangs 
of the Eastern Pikes, outlined against the sky, soft- 
ened and blurred with split rags of cloud. . . . 

She saw herself a lonely woman, walking in the 
garden, tending her plants, always alone because 
she had ceased to love . . . Growing older in the 
great silences of Wanswater, amid its beautiful 
mountains and lake and skies. 

He was still standing there. He lingered — he 
had said he would go away, but he had not gone. 
Could he be waiting for her to utter the words of 
dismissal? He had promised to make no scene 
— to go quietly . . . why did he torture her then 
by remaining? . . . 

And then she heard inconsequently the echo of 
Pamela’s words, childish and yet perhaps not wholly 
untrue : 

been through pretty had times — Pm cer^ 


AVERAGE CABINS 

tain of that. But if you chuck him hVll go through 
much worse. . . 

And she had almost laughed in Pamela’s face at 
the bare idea of her ever wanting to “chuck” Denis. 

And what had John meant by saying that now she 
was a Catholic she would understand the power of 
sacramental absolution? The sin washed away as if 
it had never been, if the contrition, the repentance, 
had been sincere — if it had been brought in all 
humility to that great tribunal of Penance and there 
confessed? The Church was very merciful . . . 
Was God more merciful than man to those who, 
despite their sins, still loved and feared and obeyed 
Him? ... 

“Ask advice . . . pray — ” that had been John’s 
counsel. He had not wanted her to act rashly, pre- 
cipitately on that first impulse of horror, revulsion, 
disillusionment. And John was a priest, and her 
brother. He had always loved her tenderly, and 
tried as best he could to promote her happiness. He 
might have said to her this morning: “Janet, you 
will have to decide and I can only tell you it’s your 
duty to yourself — to us all — to send this man away. 

. . .” But he had not given her that counsel. What 
had he meant? That she too should forgive? . . . 

Denis saw only the rigid set look of her mouth. 
The lips firmly closed as if they had no words to 
say to him. There was no sign of pity, of pardon, 
in her eyes, that were of a bright clear and hard 
blue, reminding him of the glint of steel. . . . 

He moved a step nearer. 

“Good-bye, my dear, dear Janet,” he said. “I 
am going ... I quite understand. I won’t ask you 
to shake hands with me. ...” 

My dear, dear Janet ... No human voice had 
ever uttered such words as those to her until the 
coming of Denis into her life. 

She looked at him. His eyes were shining like 



AVERAGE CABINS 



some strange black jewels — shining as if with un- 
shed tears. He was suffering . . . She looked at 
his stiff left arm, so helpless, such a handicap for 
a man who was poor and had his way to make in 
the world. He was alone and needed her . . . 
Even more, perhaps, than she needed him . . . 

“Denis,” she said faintly, almost as if the word 
escaped from her against her will. 

A gleam of hope irradiated his somber face. 
She put out her hand and he came nearer and took it 
in his firm grasp. 

“Don’t go away, Denis. . . she said. 


THE END 



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